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lAITH GARTNErS GIRLHOOD, 


BY THE AUTHOR OF 


*^BOTS AT CHEQUA88ET,'* 


To do my dnfy In that state of life to which it shall please God to call me.’ 



LORHSTG-, r^ublisher, 

319 Washington Street, 

BOSTON. 

1865 . 



% 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by 
A. K. LORIKG, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massaehosetta. 


Stereotyped and Printed by 
J« B. FABWELIi AND COMPAKT, 
87 Congress Street, Bostoxi** 


PREFACE. 


I BEGAN this story for young girls. It has grown, as they 
grow, to womanhood. It makes no artistic pretension. It is 
a simple record of something of the thought and life that lies 
between fourteen and twenty. 

I dedicate it, as it is, to these young girls, who dream, and 
wish, and strive, and err; and find, perhaps, little help to in- 
terpret their own spirits to themselves. I believe and hope 
that there is nothing in it which shall hinder tliem in what is 
noblest and truest. 

May there be something that shall lift them, — though by 
ever so little, — up I 


A. D. T. W, 



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CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB FAGI 

I. “Monet, Money!” 7 

II. SORTES 12 

ni. Aunt Henderson 17 

IV. Glory McWhirk .....24 

V. Something Happens 35 

VI. Aunt Henderson’s Girl-Hunt 65 

VII. Cares ; and what came of them 65 

VIII. A Niche in Life, and a Woman to fill it 71 

IX. Life or Death? 78 

X. Hough Ends 82 

XI. Cross Corners 90 

XII. A Keconnoissance 100 

XIII. Development 110 

XIV. A Drive with the Doctor 118 

XV. New Duties 131 

XVI. “ Blessed be ye, Poor ” 138 

XVII. Frost-Wonders 152 

XVIII. Out in the Snow I60 

XIX. A “ Leading ” 171 

1* 


6 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER PAGB 

XX. Paul * . . . 183 

* 

XXI. Pressure 194 

XXII. Koger Armstrong’s Story 204 

XXIII. Question and Answer 211 

XXIV. Conflict 229 

XXV. A Game at Chess 238 

XXVI. Lakeside 2^ 

XXVII. At the Mills 253 

XXVIII. Locked In .*258 

XXIX. Home 272 

XXX. Aunt Henderson’s Mystery 2S0 

XXXI. Nurse Sampson’s way of looking at it • 291 

XXXII. Glory McWhirk’s Inspiration 300 

XXXIII. Last Hours f 

XXXIV. Mrs. Parley Gimp 

XXXV. Indian Stokvier 

XXXVI. Christmas-tide 

XXXVIl. The Wedding Journey 343 


FAITH GARTNEFS GIRLHOOD. 


^ CHAPTER I. 

“MONEY, MONET I” 

** Shoe the horse and shoe the mare, 

And let the little colt go bare.” 

East or West, it matters not where, — the story may, 
doubtless, indicate something of latitude and longitude as 
it proceeds, — in the city of Mishaumok, lived Henderson 
Gartney, Esq., one of those American gentlemen of whom, 
if she were ever canonized, Martha of Bethany must be the 
patron saint, — if again, feminine celestials, sainthood once 
achieved through the weary experience of earth, don’t know 
better than to assume such charge of wayward man, — 
born, as they are, seemingly, to the life-destiny of being 
ever “ careful and troubled about many things.” 

We have all of us, as little gii'ls, read “Rosamond.” 
Now, one of Rosamond’s early worries suggests a key to 
half the worries, early and late, of grown men and women. 
The silver paper won’t cover the basket. 

Mr. Gartney had spent his years, from twenty-five to 
forty, in sedulously tugging at the corners. He had had 
his share of silver paper, too, — only the basket was a little 
too big. 


8 


FAITH GAFTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 

In a pleasant apartment, half library, half parlor, and 
used in the winter months as a breakfast room, beside a 
table still covered with the remnants of the morning meal, 
sat Mrs. Gartney and her young daughter, Faith; the latter 
with a somewhat disconcerted, not to say rueful, expression 
of face. 

A pair of slippers on the hearth and the morning paper 
thrown down beside an arm-chair, gave hint of the recent 
presence of the master of the house. ’ ^ 

‘‘ Then I suppose I can’t go,” remarked the young lady. 
“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered the elder, in a help- 
less, worried sort of tone. “ It don’t seem really right to 
ask your father for the money. I did just speak of your 
wanting some things for a party, but I suppose he has for- 
gotten it ; and, to-day, I hate to trouble him with reminding. 
Must you really have new gloves and slippers, both ? ” 

Faith held up her little foot for answer, shod with a partly- 
worn bronze kid, reduced to morning service. 

“ These are the best I ’ve got. And my gloves have been 
cleaned over and over, till you said yourself, last time, they 
would hardly do to wear again. If it were any use, I should 
say I must have a new dress ; but I thought at least I 
should freshen up with the ‘ little fixings,’ and perhaps have 
something left for a few natural fiowers for my hair.” 

“ I know. But your father looked annoyed when I told 
him we should want fresh marketing to-day. He is really 
pinched, just now, for ready money, — and he is so discour- 
aged about the times. He told me only last night of a man 
who owed him five "hundred dollars, and came to say he 
did n’t know as he could pay a cent. It don’t seem to be 
a time to afford gloves and shoes and flowers. And then 
there ’ll be the carriage, too.” 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


9 


*‘0h3ear!” sigted Faitla, in the tone of one who felt 
herself checkmated. “ I wish I knew what we really could 
afford ! It always seems to he these little things that don’t 
cost much, and that other girls, whose fathers are not nearly 
so well off, always have, without thinking anything about 
it.” And she glanced over the table, whereon shone a silver 
coffee-service, and up at the mantel where stood a French 
clock that had been placed there a month before. 

“ Pull at the bobbin and the latch will fly up.” An un- 
spoken suggestion, of drift akin to this, flitted through the 
mind of Faith. She wondered if her father knew that this 
was a Signal Street invitation. 

Mr. Gartney was ambitious for his children, and solicitous 
for their place in society. 

But Faith had a touch of high-mindedness about her that 
made it impossible for her to pull bobbins. 

So, when her father presently, with hat and coat on, came 
into the room again for a moment, before going out for the 
day, she sat quite silent^ with her foot upon the fender, look- 
ing into the fire. # 

Something in her face however, quite unconsciously, 
,bespoke that the world did not lie entirely straight before 
her, and this catching her father’s eye, brought up to him, 
by an untraceable association, the half proffered request of 
his wife. 

“ So you haven’t any shoe^ Faithie. Is that it?” . 

“ None nice enough for a party, father.” 

“ And the party is a vital necessity, I suppose. "Where 
is it to be ? ” . 

The latch-string was put forth, and while Faith still stayed 
her hand, her mother, absolved Jrom selfish end, was fain to 
catch it up. 


10 FAITH GARTNET’S GIRLHOOD. 

• 

“ At tlie Eushleigh’s. The Old Year out and the New 
Year in.” 

“ Oh, well, we mustn't ‘let the colt go hare,' ” answered 
Mr. Gartney, pleasantly, portmonnaie in hand. “ But you 
must make that do.” He handed her five dollars. “ And 
take good care of your things when you have got them, for 
I don’t pick up many five dollars now-a-days.” 

And the old look of care crept up, replacing the kindly 
smile, as he turned and left the room. 

“ I feel very much as if I had picked ray father’s pocket,” 
said Baith, holding the bank-note, half ashamedly, in her 
hand. 

Henderson Gartney, Esquire, was a man of no method in 
his expenditure. When money chanced to be plenty with 
him it was very apt to go as might happen — for French 
clocks, or whatsoever ; and then, suddenly, the silver paper 
fell short elsewhere, and lo I a corner was left uncovered. 

The horse and the mare were shod. Great expenses were 
incurred ; money was found, somehow, for grand outlays ; 
but the comfort of buying, with#a readiness, the little 
needed matters of every day, — this was foregone. “Not 
let the colt go bare I ” It was precisely the thing he was 
continually doing. 

Mrs. Gartney had long found it to be her only wise way 
to make her hay while the sun was shining, — to buy, when 
she could buy, what she was sqre would be most wanted, — 
and to look forward as far as possible, in her provisions, 
since her husband scarcely seemed to look forward at all. 

So she exemplified, over and over again in her life, the 
story of Pharaoh and his fat and lean kine. 

That night. Faith, her litj^e purchases and arrangements 
hYL complete, and flowers and carriage bespoken for the next 
0 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


11 


evening, went to bed to dream such dreams as only come to 
tbe sleep of early years. 

At tbe same time, lingering by tbe fireside below for a 
balf boar’s unreserved conversation, Mr. Gartney was tell- 
ing bis wife of another money disappointment. 

“ BlacMow, at Cross Corners, gives up tbe lease of tbe 
bouse in tbe spring. He writes me be is going out to Indi- 
ana with bis son-in-law. I 'don’t know where I shall find 
another such tenant, — or any at all, for that matter/^ 


CHAPTER II. 


SORTES. , 

“ How shall I know if I do choose the right ? ** 

Since this fortune falls to you, 

Be content, and seek no new.” 

Merchant of Venice. 

“Now, Mahala Hams,” said Faith, as she glanced in at 
the nursery door, which opened from her room, “ don’t let 
Hendie get up a French Revolution here while I ’m gone to 
dinner.” 

Land sates ! Miss Faith ! I don’t know what you mean, 
nor whether I can help it. I dare say he ’d get up a Revo- 
lution of ’76, over again, if he once set out. He does train 
like ’lection, fact, sometimes.” 

“ Well, don’t let him build barricades with all the chairs, 
so that I shall have to demolish my way back again. I ’m 
going to lay out my dress for to-night.” 

And very little dinner could her young appetite manage 
on this last day of the year. All her vital energy was busy 
in her anticipative- brain, and glancing thence in sparkles 
from her eyes, and quivering down in swift currents to her 
restless little feet. It mattered little that there was deli- 
cious roast beef smoking on the table, and Christmas- 
pies were arrayed upon the sideboard, while up stairs the 
bright ribbon and tiny, shining, old-fashioned buckles were 


FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD. 


13 


waiting to be shaped into rosettes for the new slippers, and 
the lace hung, half basted, from the neck, of the simple but 
delicate silk dress, and those lovely green-house flowers 
stood in a glass dish on her dressing-table, to be sorted for 
her hair, and into a graceful breast-knot. No, — dinner was 
a very secondary and contemptible afiair, compared with 
these. 

Ah, if people could only hold out to live, all the rest of 
their days, on perfume and beauty and grace and dreamy 
delights, — that seem, in the charmed vision of youth, the 
essential verities of life, — how the worry and care of break- 
fasts and dinners and butchers’ and gi'ocers’ bills and the 
trouble of servants should be gloriously done away with ! 
To-night, Faith’s eyes shine, and her cheek glows with the 
more joy of life and loveliness ; but, to-morrow, she will bo 
hungry like any other mortal ; and there must be chickens, 
or beefsteak, or oven coarser mutton or pork, to feed the very 
roses that flush and crown her girlish beauty. We don’t 
live straight from the spirit impulse yet ! 

There were few forms or faces, truly, that were pleasanter 
to look upon in the group that stood, disrobed of their care- 
ful outer wrappings, in Mrs. Kushleigh’s dressing-room; 
their huriied chat and gladsome greetings distracted with 
the drawing on of gloves and the last adjustment of shining 
locks, while the bewildering" music was floating up from be- 
low, mingled with the hum of voices from the rooms where, 
as children say, “the party had begun” already. 

And Mrs. Kushleigh, when Faith paid her timid respects 
in the drawing-room at last, made her welcome with a pecu- 
liar grace and empressement that had their own flattering 
weight and charm ; for the lady was a sort of St. Peter of 
fashion, holding its mystic keys, and admitting or rejecting 


U FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


whom she would ; and culled, with marvellous tact and taste, 
the flower of the upgrowing world of Mishaumok to adorn 
“her set.” 

After which, Faith, claimed at once by an eager aspirant, 
and beset with many a following introduction and petition, 
was drawn to and kept in the joyous whirlpool of the dance, 
till she had breathed in enough of delight and excitement 
to carry her quite beyond the thought even of ices and oys- 
ters and jellies and fruits, and the score of unnamable 
luxuries whereto the young revellers were duly summoned 
at half past ten o’clock. 

Four days’ anticipation, — four hours’ realization, — cul- 
minated in the glorious after-supper midnight dance, when, 
marshalled hither and thither by the ingenious orders of the 
band, the jubilant company found itself, just on the impend- 
ing stroke of twelve, drawn out around the room in one great 
circle ; and suddenly a hush of the music, at the very poising 
instant of time, left them motionless for a moment to burst 
out again in the age-honored and * heart-warming strains 
of “ Auld Lang Syne.” Hand joining hand they sang its 
chorus, and when the last note had lingeringly died away, 
one after another gently broke from their places, and the 
momentary figure melted out with the dying of the Year, 
never again to' be just so combined. It was gone, as van- 
ishes also every other phase and grouping in the kaleido- 
scope of Time. 

“ Now is the very ‘ witching hour’ to try the Sortes! ” 

Margaret Eushleigh said this, standing on the threshold 
of a little inner apartment that opened from the long draw- 
ing-room, at one end ; and speaking to those nearest her in 
theuscattered groups that had hardly ceased bandying back 
and forth their tumultuous “ Happy New Years.” 


FAITH O.ARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


15 


She held in her hand a large and beautiful volume, a 

gift of Christmas day. 

“Here are Fates for everybody who cares to find them 
out ! ” 

The book was a collection of poetical quotations, arranged 
by numbers, and to be chosen thereby, and the chance appli- 
cation taken as an oracle. 

Everything like fortune-telling, or a possible peering into 
the things of coming time, has such a charm ! Especially 
with them to whom the past is but a prelude and beginning, 
and for whom the great, voluminous Future holds enwrap- 
ped the whole mystic Story of Life ! 

“ No, no, this won’t do ! ” cried the young lady, as circle 
behind circle closed and crowded eagerly about her. “ Fate 
don’t give out her revelations in such wholesale fashion. 
You must come up with proper reverence, one by one.” 

As she spoke, she withdrew a little within the curtained 
archway, and, placing the crimson-covered book of destiny 
upon an inlaid table, brought forward a piano- stool, and 
seated herself thereon, as a priestess upon a tripod. 

A little shyly, one after another, gaining knowledge of 
what was going on, the company strayed in from without, 
and, each in turn hazarding a number, received in answer 
the rhyme or stanza indicated ; and who shall say how long 
those chance-directed words, chosen for th^ most part with 
the elastic ambiguity of all oracles of any established au- 
thority, lingered echoing in the heads and hearts of them 
to whom they were given, — shaping and confirming, or 
darkening with their denial many an after hope and fear? 

One only, of them all, has an interest for us that needs a 
record. 

Faith Gartney came up among the very last. 


16 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


“ How many numlbers are there to choose from ? ” she 
asked. 

Three hundred and sixty-five. The number of days in 
the year.” 

“Well, then, I T1 take the number of the day ; the last, 
— no, I forgot, — the first of all.” 

Nobody before had chosen this, and Margaret read, in a 
clear, gentle voice, not untouched with the grave beauty of 
its own words, and the sweet, earnest, listening look of the 
young face that bent toward her to take them in, — 


“Bouse to some high and holy work of love, 

And thou an angel’s happiness shalt know ; 

Shalt bless the earth while in the world above j 
The good begun by thee while here below 
Shall like a river run, and broader flow.'* 

Ten minutes later, and all else were absorbed in other 
things again, — leave-takings, parting chat, and a few waltz- 
ing a last measure to a specially-accorded grace of music. 
Faith stood, thoughtfully, by the table where the book wag 
closed and left. She quietly reopened it af that first page. 
Unconscious of a step behind her, her eyes ran over the lines 
again, to make their beautiful words her own. 

“ And that was your oracle, then ? ” asked a kindly voice. 

Glancing quickly up, while the timid color flushed her 
cheek, she met a look as of a wise and watchful angel, 
though it came through the eye and smile of a gray-haired . 
man, who laid his hand upon the page as he said, — 

“ Eemember, — it is conditional 


CHAPTER III. 


AUNT HENDERSON. 


“ I never met a manner more entirely without frill.” 

Sydney Smith. 

Late into the morning of the New Year, Faith slept. 
Through her half consciousness crept, at last, a feeling of 
.music that had been wandering in faint echoes^^ong the 
chambers of her brain all those hours of her suspended 
life, and were the first sensations to stir there, when that 
mysterious Life flashed back along its channels, and brought 
•a light more subtle than the mere sunshine that through the 
easterly windows was flooding all her room with its silent 
arousal. 

Light, and music, and a sense of an unexamined, half- 
remembered joy, filled her being and embraced her at her 
waking on this New Year’s Day. A moment she lay in a 
passive, jinthinking delight; and then her first, full, and 
distinct thought shaped itself, as from a sweet and solemn ^ 
memory, — 

“ Rouse Jji^ome high and holy work of love, 

And thou an angel’s happiness shall know.” 

An impulse of lo^ty feeling held her in its ecstasy ; a 
noble lon|ing. aij determination shaped itself, though 
2 *' ^ 


18 


FAITH GAETNEY'S GIRLHOOD. 


vaguely, within her. For a little, she was touched in her 
deepest and truest nature ; she was uplifted to the threshold 
of a great resolve. But generalities are so grand, — details 
so coroeoonplace and unsatisfying. What should she do? 
What “ high and holy work” lay waiting for her? 

A T)d, breaking in upon her reverie, — bringing her down 
with its rough and common call to common duty. — the 
second bell for breakfast rang. 

“Oh, dear! It is no use! Who’ll know what great 
things I ’ve been wisMng and planning, when I ’ve nothing 
to show for it but just being late to breakfast? And father 
hates it so, — and New Year’s morning, too I ” 

Hurrying her toilet, she repaired, with all the haste 
possible, to the breakfast-room, where her consciousness 
of shortewning was in nowise lessened when she saw who 
occupied the seat at her father’s right hand, — Aunt Hen- 
derson I 

Aunt Faith Henderson, who had reached her nephew’s 
house last evening just after the young Faith, her name- 
sake, had gone joyously off to “dance the Old Year out 
and the New Year in.” Old-fashioned Aunt Faith, — who 
believed most devoutly that “ early to bed and early to 
rise ” was the only way to be “ healthy, wealthy, or wise 1 ” 
Aunt Faith, who had never quite forgiven our young heroine 
for having said, at the discreet and positive age of nine, 
that “ she did n’t see what her father and mother had called 
her such an ugly name for. It was a real old-maid’s name ! ” 
Whereupon, having asked, the child what she would have 
preferred as a substitute, and being answered, “Well, — 
Olotilda, I guess; or Cleopatra,” — ]\^^H^dcrson had 
told her that she was quite welcome ^ change':)it for any 
heathen woman’s that she pleased, and theiJW(5rse behaved 


FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD. 


19 


perhaps the better. She would n’t he so likely to do it any 
discredit ! 

Aunt Henderson had a downright and rather extreme 
fashion of putting things; nevertheless, in her heart she 
was not unkindly. 

So when Faithie, with her fair, fresh face, — a little 
apprehensive trouble in it for her tardiness, — came in, 
there was a grim bending of the old lady’s brows; but, 
below, a half-belying twinkle in the eye, that, long as it 
had looked out sharply and keenly on the things, and people 
of this mixed-up world, found yet a pleasure in anything 
so young and bright. 

“Why, auntie! How do you do?” cried Faith, cun- 
ning culprit that she was, taking the “ bull by the horns,” 
and holding out her hand. “I wish you a Happy Hew 
Year! Good morning, father, and mother! A Happy New 
Year ! I ’m sorry I ’m so late.” 

“ Wish you a great many,” responded the great-aunt, in 
stereotyped phrase. “ It seems to me, though, you’ve lost 
the beginning of this one.” 

“Oh, no!” replied Faithie, gayly. “I had that at the 
party. We danced the New Year in.” 

“ Humph ! ” said Aunt Henderson. 

Breakfast over, and Mr. Gartney gone to his counting- 
room, the parlor-girl made her appearance with her mop 
and tub of hot water, to wash up the silver and china. 

“ Give me that,” said Aunt Henderson, taking a large 
towel from the girl’s arm as she^si^t down her tub upon the 
sideboard. “ You go and find’ something else to do.” 

Wherever she^fea^ght be, — to be sure, her round of visit- 
ing was not a large ]bne, — Aunt Henderson never let any 
one else wash u 


20 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


This quiet arming of herself, with mop and towel, stir- 
^ red up everybody else to duty. Her niece-in-law laughed, 
withdrew her feet from the comfortable fender, and depart- 
ed to the kitchen to give her household orders for the day. 
Faith removed cups, . glasses, forks, and spoons from the 
table to the sideboard, while the maid, returning with a 
tray, carried off to the lower regions the larger dishes, and 
the remnants of the meal. 

“I haven’t told you yet, Elizabeth, what I came to 
town for,” said Aunt Faith, when Mrs. Gartney came 
back into the breakfast- room. “ I ’m going to hunt up a 
girl.” 

“ A girl, aunt ! Why, what has become of Prudence? 

“Mrs. Pelatiah Trowe. That’s what’s become of her. 
More fool she.” 

“ But why in the world do you come to the city for a 
servant? It’s the worst possible place. Nineteen out of 
twenty are utterly good for nothing.” 

“I’m going to look out for the twentieth.” 

“ But are n’t there girls enough in Kinnicutt who would 
be glad to step into Prue’s place ? ” 

“Of course there are. Plenty. But they ’re all well enough 
off where they are. When I have a chance to give away, I 
want to give it to somebody that needs it.” 

“I’m afraid you ’ll hardly find any efficient girl who 
will appreciate the chance of going twenty miles into the 
country.” 

“ I don’t want an effi^^^girl. I’m efficient myself, and 
that ’s enough.” 

“Going to train another, at your .tinle o^ life, aunt?’* 
a-sked Mrs. Gartney, in surprise. \ j 

“ I suppose 1 must either train a girl,'*or^et her train 


FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD. 21 


me ; and, at mj time of life, I don’t feel to stand in need 
of that.” 

“How shall I go to work to inquire?” resumed Aunt 
Henderson, after a pause. 

“ Well, there are the Homes, and the Ojffices, and the 
lilinisters at Large. At a Home, they would probably rec- 
ommend you somebody they’ve made up their minds to 
put out to service, and she might or might not be such an 
one as would suit you. Then at the Offices, you ’ll see all 
sorts, and mostly poor ones.” 

“I’ll try an Office, first,” interrupted Miss Henderson. 
“ I wa7it to see all sorts. Faith, you ’ll go with me, by-and- 
by, won’t you, and help me find the way ? ” 

Faith, seated at a little writing-table at the farther end 
of the room, busied in copying into her album, in a clear, 
neat, but rather stiff school-girl’s hand, the oracle of the 
night before, did not at once notice that she was addressed. 

“ Faith, child ! don’t you hear? ” 

“ Oh, yes, aunt. What is it? ” 

“ I want you to go to a what-d’ye-call-it office with me, 
to-day.” 

“ An intelligence office,” explained her mother. “ Aunt 
Faith wants to find a girl.” 

“ ‘ Lucus a non lucendo' ” quoted Faith, rather wittily, 
from her little stock of Latin. “ Stupidity offices, I should 
call them, from the specimens they s.end out.” ^ 

“Hold your tongue, chit! Don’t talk Latin to me!” 
growled Aunt Henderson. 

“What are you writing?” she asked, shortly after, when 
Mrs. Gartney had again left her and Faith to each other. 
“ Letters, or Latin ? ” 

Faith colored, and laughed. 


22 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


Only a fortune tliatwas told me last night,” she replied. 

“Oh! ‘A little husband,’ I suppose, ‘ no bigger than 
my thumb ; put him in a pint pot, and there bid him drum.’ 

“No,” said Faith, half seriously, and half teased out of 
her seriousness. “It’s nothing of that sort. At least,” 
she added, glancing over the lines again, “ I don’t think it 
means anything like that.” 

And Faith laid down the book, and went up stairs for a 
word with her mother. 

Aunt Henderson, who had been brought up in times when 
all the doings of young girls were strictly supervised, and 
who had no high-flown scruples, because she had no mean 
motives, deliberately walked over and fetched the elegant 
little volume from the table, reseated herself in her arm- 
chair, — felt for her glasses, and set them carefully upon 
her nose, — and, as her grand-niece returned, vras just flnish- 
ing her perusal of the freshly-inscribed lines. 

“ Humph ! A good fortune. Only you ’ve got to earn 
it.” 

“ Yes,” said Faith, quite gravely. “ And I don’t see 
how. There don’t seem to be much that I can do.” 

“ Just take hold of the first thing that comes in your 
way. If the Lord ’s got anything bigger to give you, he ’ll 
see to it. There ’s your mother’s mending-basket brimful 
of stockings.” 

Faith couldn’t help laughing. Presently she grew grave 
again. 

“ Aunt Henderson,” said she, abruptly, “I wish some- 
thing would happen to me. I get tired of living sometimes. 
Things don’t seem worth while.” 

Aunt Henderson bent her head slightly, and opened her 
eyes wide over the tops of her glasses. 


'P'UTH GARTNET\ 


“ Don’t say that again,” said she. ' 
enough. Don’t you dare to tempt ProYiuv 
“ Providence won’t he tempted, nor misu 
plied Faith, an undertone of reverence qualifyin^^ 
repartee. “ He knows just what I mean.” 

“ She’s a queer child,” said Aunt Faith to herself, ait 
wards, thinking over the brief conversation. “She’ll be 
something or nothing, I always said. I used to think ’t would 
be nothing.” 




CHAPTER IV. 


GLORY MCWHIRK. 

There ’s beauty waiting to be bom, 
And harmony that makes no sound j 
And bear we ever, unawares, 

A glory that hath not been crowned. 


Shall I try to give you a glimpse of quite another 
young life than Eaith Gartney’s? One looking also vaguely, 
wonderingly, for “ something to happen,” — that indefinite 
“ something” which lies in everybody’s future, which may 
never arrive, and yet which any hour may bring? 

Very little likelihood there has ever seemed for any 
great joy to get into such a life as this has been, that began, 
or at least has its earliest memory and association, in the 
old poor-house at Stonebury. 

A child she was, of five years, when she was taken in there 
with her old, crippled grandmother. 

Peter McWhirk was picked up dead, from the gravelled 
drive of a gentleman’s place, where he had been trimming 
the high trees that shaded it. An unsound limb — a heed- 
less movement — and Peter went straight down, thirty feet, 
and out of dife. Out of life, where he had a trim, comfort- 
able young wife, — one happy little child, for whom skies 
were as blue, and grass as green, and buttercups as golden 
as for the little heiress of Elm Hill, who was riding over 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


25 


the lawn in her basket-wagon, when Peter met his death 
there, — the hope, also, of another that was to come. 

Kosa McWhirk and her baby of a day old were buried 
the week after, together ; and then there was nothing left 
for Glory and her helpless grandmother but the poor-house 
as a present refuge ; and to the one death, that ends all, 
and to the other a life of rough and unremitting work to 
look to for by-and-by. 

When Glory came into this world where wants begin with 
the first breath, and go on thickening around us, and press- 
ing upon us until the last one is supplied to us — a grave 
— she wanted, first of all, a name. 

“ Sure what’ll I call the baby?” said the proud young 
mother to the ladies from the white corner house, "where 
she had served four faithful years of her maidenhood, and 
who came down at once with comforts and congratulations. 
“ They ’ve sint for the praist, an’ I ’ve niver bethought of a 
name. I made so certain ’t wciild be a boy ! ” 

“ What a funny bit of a thing it is ! ” cried the younfer 
of the two visitors, turning back the bed-elothes a little fro**A 
the tiny, red, puckered face, with short, sandy-colored hair 
standing up about the temples like a fuzz-ball. 

“ I ’d call her Glory. There ’s a halo round her head like 
the saints in the pictures.” 

“ Sure, that ’s jist like yersilf. Miss Mattie ! ” exclaimed 
Rosa, with a faint, merry little laugh. “ An’ quare enough, 
r knew a lady once’t of the very name, in the ould country. 
Miss Gloriana O’Dowd she was ; an’ the beauty o’ Cqpnty 
Rerry. My, Lady Kinawley, she came to be. ’Deed, but 
1 'd like to do it, for the ould times, an’ for you thinkin’ of 
it ! I ’ll ask Pe-ter, anyhow ! ” 

^^nd so Glory got her name ; and Mattie Hyde, who gave 

% ’ 


26 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


her that, gave her many another thing that was no less a 
giving to the mother also, before she was two years old. 
Then Mrs. Hyde and the young lady, having first let the 
corner house, went away to Europe to stay for years ; and 
when a box of tokens from the far, foreign lands came back 
to Stonebury awhile after, there was a grand shawl for 
Eosa, and a pretty braided frock for the baby, and a rosary 
that Glory keeps to this hour, that had been blessed by the 
Pope. That was the last. Mattie and her mother sailed 
out upon the Mediterranean one day from the bright coast 
of France for a far eastern port, to see the Holy Land. 
God’s Holy Land they did see, though they never touched* 
those Syrian shores, or climbed the hills about Jerusalem. 

jGlofy remembered, — for the most part dimly, for some 
special points distinctly, — her child-life of three years in 
Stonebury poor-house. How her grandmother and an old 
countrywoman from the same county “ at home ” sat knit- 
ting and crooning together in a sunny corner of the common 
roflhi in winter, or out under the stoop in summer ; how she 
rolled down the green bank behind the house ; and, when 
she grew big enough to be trusted with a knife, was sent out 
to dig dandelions in the spring, and how an older girl went 
with her round the village, and sold them from house to 
house. How, at last, her old grandmother died, and was 
buried ; and how a woman of the village, who had used to 
buy her dandelions, found a place for her with a relative 
of her own, in the ten-mile distant city, who took Gloiy to 
“bring up,” — “seeing,” as she said, “there was nobody 
belonging to her to interfere.” 

Was there a day, after that, that did not leave its searing 
impress upon heart and memory, of the life that was given, 
m its every young pulse and breath, to sordid toil for others 



FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


27 


and to which it seemed nobody on earth owed aught of care 
or service in return ? 

Clothed and fed, to be sure, she was ; that is, she neither 
starved, nor went naked ; but she was barely covered and 
nourished as she must be, — as any beast of burden must 
be, — to do its owner’s work. 

It was a close little house, — one of those houses where 
they have fried dinners so often that the smell never gets 
out, — in Budd Street, — a street of a single side, wedged 
in between the back yards of more pretentious mansions that 
stood on fair parallel avenues sloping down from a hill-top 
to the water-side, that Mrs. Grubbltng lived. 

Here Glory McWhirk, from eight years old to nearly 
fifteen, scoured knives and brasses, tended door-bell, set ta- 
bles, washed dishes, and minded the baby ; whom, at her 
peril, she must “keep pacified,” — ^. e., amused and content, 
while its mother was otherwise busy. For her, poor child, 
— baby that she still, almost, was herself, — who amused, 
or contented her ? There are humans with whom amusement 
and content have nothing to do. What will you? The 
world must go on. 

Glory curled the baby’s hair, and made him “look pret- 
ty.” Mts. Grabbling cut her little handmaid’s short to save 
trouble ; so that the very determined yellow locks which, 
under more favoring circumstances of place and fortune, 
might have been trained into lovely golden curls like the 
child’s who lived in the tall house opposite the Grubblings’ 
door, and who came, sometimes, to the long back-parlor 
windows, and unconsciously shone into poor, unknown 
Glory’s life, who watched for her as for a vision, — these . 
locks, I say, stood up continually in their rcs tj^gj -eaching 

t the fairer destiny that had been meant ^Khem, in 


28 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


the old fuzz-ball fashion ; and Glory grew more and more to 
justify her name. 

Do you think she did n’t know what beauty was, — this 
child who never had a new or pretty garment, but who wore 
frocks “ fadged up” out of old, faded breadths of her mis- 
tress’s dresses, and bonnets with brims cut off and top- 
knots taken down, and coarse shoes, and stockings cut out 
of the legs of those whereof Mrs. Grubbling had worn out 
the extremities? Do you think she didn’t feel the differ- 
ence, and that it was n’t this that made her shuffle along 
so with her toes in, when she sped along the streets upon 
her manifold errands, and met gentle-people’s children 
laughing and dancing and skipping their hoops upon the 
sidewalks ? 

I tell you the soul shapes to itself a life, whether the 
outer life conform to it or not. What else is imagination 
given for? 

Did you ever think how strange it is that among the 
millions of human experiences, — out of all the numberless 
combinations of circumstance and incident that make the 
. different lives of men and women, — now unfolding their 
shifting webs upon this earth, you yourself, and that without 
voluntary choice, have just one, perhaps but a very dull and 
meagre one, allotted you? With all the divine capacity you 
find in yourself to enter into and comprehend a life quite 
other than and foreign to the daily reality of your own, and 
to feel how it would be to you if it might become tangible 
and actual, did you ever question why it is that you are 
.^pt out of it, and of all else save the one small and insuf- 
,^ient history ? The very consciousness of such capacity 
answers yotJj^hy. 

“ NcTSf&ftinives to himself.” 


FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD, 


29 


Out of all lives, actual and possible, each one of us 
appropriates continually into his own. This is a world of 
hints only, out; of which every soul seizes to itself what it 
needs. 

This girl, uncherished, repressed in every natural longing 
to be and to have, took in all the more of what was possible ; 
for God had given her this glorious insight, this imagina- 
tion, wherewith we fill up life’s scanty outline, and grasp 
at all that might be, or that elsewhere, is. In her, as in us 
all, it was often — nay, daily — a discontent ; yet a noble 
discontent, and curbed with a grand, unconscious patience. 
She scoured her knives ; she shuffled along the streets on 
hasty errands; she went up and down the house in her 
small menial duties ; she put on and off her coarse, repul- 
sive clothing ; she uttered herself in her common, ignorant 
forms of speech ; she showed only as a poor, low, little 
Irish girl with red hair and staring, wondering eyes, and 
awkward movements, and a frightened fashion of getting 
into everybody’s way ; and yet, behind all this, there was 
another life that went on in a hidden beauty that you and 
I cannot fathom, save only as God gives the like, inwardly, 
to ourselves. 

There are persons who have an “ impediment of speech,” 
so that the thoughts that shape themselves in the brain are 
smothered there, and can never be born in fitting utterance. 
There are many who have an impediment of life. A some- 
thing wanting — withheld — that hinders the inner exist- 
ence from flowering out into visible fact and deed. Flowers 
it not somewhere? Is there not building somewhere, all 
the while, that which God hath reserved for them from the 
foun^tion of the world ? 

When Glory’s mistress cut her hair, there were always 

3 * 


30 


FAITH GAMTNET'S GIRLHOOD. 


tears and rebellion. It was her one, eager, passionate bing- 
ing, in those childish days, that these locks of hers should 
be let to grow. She thought she could almost bear anything 
else, if only this stiff, unseemly crop might lengthen out 
into waves and ringlets that should toss in the wind like the 
carefully kempt tresses of children she met in the streets. 
She imagined it would be a complete and utter happiness 
just once to feel it falling in its wealth about her shoulders 
or dropping against her cheeks ; and to be able to look at it 
with her eyes, and twist her fingers in it at the ends. And 
so, when it got to be its longest, and began to make itself 
troublesome about her forehead, and to peep below her 
shabby bonnet in her neck, she had a brief season of won- 
derful enjoyment in it. Then she could “ make believe” it 
had really grown out; and the comfort she took in “going 
through the motions,” — pretending to tuck behind her ears 
what scarcely touched their tips, and tossing her head con- 
tinually, to throw back imaginary masses of curls, was truly 
indescribable, and such as I could not begin to make you 
understand. 

“Half-witted monkey!” Mrs. Grabbling would ejacu- 
late, contemptuously, seeing, with what she conceived mar- 
vellous penetration, the half of her little servant’s thought, 
and so pronouncing from her own half-wit. Then the great 
shears came out, and the instinct of grace and beauty in the 
child was pitilessly outraged, and her soul mutilated, as 
it were, in every clip of the inexorable shears. 

Glory lived half her life in that back parlor of the Pem- 
bertons. The little golden-haired vision went and came ; it 
sat by its mother’s side in the firelight, before the curtains 
were drawn down ; it had a party, now and then, of other 
little radiances like unto itself ; and Glory, “ tending mby 


FAITH GARTNFY^S GIRLHOOD, 31 


in Mrs. Grabbling’ s fusty chamber, watched their games 
through the long, large-paned windows, and reproduced 
them next day, when the chores were done, and she and 
baby could go up stairs and “have a party;” bidding 
thereto, on his solemn promise of good behavior, “Bubby,” 
otherwise Master Herbert Clarence Grabbling ; ranging, 
also, six chairs, to represent or to accommodate invisible 
“ company.” 

And, for me, I can’t help thinking there may have been 
company there. 

She was always glad, — poor Glory, — when the spring- 
time came. The water running in the gutters ; the blades 
of grass and tufts of chickweed that grew under the 
walls; the soft, damp air that betokened the mollifying 
season, — these touched her with a delight, and gave her a 
sense of joy and beauty that might have been no deeper or 
keener if it had come to her through the ministries of great 
rivers, and green meadows, and all the wide breeze and blue 
of the circling sky. 

She took Bubby and Baby down to the Common, of a 
May-day, to see the processions and the paper-crowned 
queens ; and stood there in her stained and drabbled dress, 
with the big year-and-a-ha]f-old baby in her arms, and so 
quite at the mercy of Master Herbert Clarence, who defi- 
antly skipped off down the avenues, and almost out of her 
giglit, — ^ she looking after him in helpless dismay, lest he 
should get a splash or a tumble, or be altogether lost; 
and then what would the mistress say ? Standing there 
so, — the troops of children in their holiday trim passing 
close beside her, — her young heart turned bitter for a mo- 
ment, as it sometimes would ; and her one utterance of all 
that swelled her mariyr-r;Oul broke forth, — 


82 FAITH GAETNET'S GIRLHOOD, 


j Laws a me ! Secli lots of good times in the world, and 
j I aint in ’em ! ” 

And then she meekly turned off homeward, lugging the 
baby in her arms, who peremptorily declined her enticing 
suggestion when they passed the Common gates, that he 
should get down, and “go patty, patty, on the sidewalk;” 
Master Herbert, who had in the midst of his most reckless 
escapades kept one eye carefully upon her movements, racing 
after her, vociferating that he would “ go right and tell his 
ma how Glory ran away from him,” 

Yet, that afternoon, when Mrs. Grabbling went out 
shopping, and left her to her own devices with the chil- 
dren, how jubilantly she trained the battered chairs in 
line, and put herself at the head, with Bubby’s scarlet 
tippet wreathed about her upstart locks, and made a May 
Day! 

I say, she had the soul and essence of the very life she 
seemed to miss. 

There were shabby children’s books about the Grubbling 
domicile, that had been the older child’s — Cornelia’s — and 
had descended to Master Herbert, while yet his only pas- 
time in them was to scrawl them full of pencil-marks, and 
tear them into tatters. These, one by one. Glory rescued, 
and hid away, and fed upon, piecemeal, in secret. She could 
read, at least, — this poor, denied unfortunate. Peter Mc- 
Whirk had taught his child her letters in happy, humble 
Sundays and holidays long ago ; and Mrs. Grubbling had 
begun by sending her to a primary school for awhile, 
irregularly, when she could be spared ; and when she had ’nt 
just torn her frock, or worn out her shoes, or it did n’t rain, 
or she had n’t been sent of an errand and come back too 


FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD, 33 


late, — -which reasons, with a multitude of others, constantly 
recurring, reduced the school-days in the year to a number 
whose smallness Mrs. Grabbling would have indignantly 
disputed, had it been calculated and set before her; she 
being one of those not uncommon persons who regard a duty 
continually evaded as one continually performed, it being 
necessarily just as much on their minds ; till, at last, Her- 
bert had a winter’s illness, and in summer it was n’t worth 
while, and the winter after, baby came, so that of course 
she could n’t be spared at all ; and it seemed little likely 
now that she ever again would be. But she kept her spell- 
ing-book, and read over and over what she knew, and groped 
her way slowly into more, till she promoted herself from that 
to “Mother Goose,” — from “Mother Goose” to “Fables 
for the Nursery,” — and now, her ever fresh and unfailing 
feast was the “ Child’s Own Book of Fairy Tales,” and an odd 
volume of the “ Parents’ Assistant.” She picked out, slowly, 
the gist of these, with a lame and uncertain interpretation. 
She lived for weeks with Beauty and the Beast, — with 
Cinderella, — with the good girl who worked for the witch, 
and shook her feather-bed every morning ; till at last, given 
leave to go home and see her mother, the gold and silver 
shower came down about her, departing at the back-door. 
Perhaps she should get her pay, sometime, and go home 
and see her mother. 

Meanwhile, she identified herself with — lost herself utterly 
in — these imaginary lives. She was, for the time, Cinderella ; 
she was" Beauty; she was above all, the Fair One with 
Golden Locks; she was Simple Susan going to be Maj 
Queen ; she dwelt in the old Castle of Eossmore, with the 
Irish Orphans. The little Grubbling house in Budd Street 


34 FAITH GAItTHET'S GIRLHOOD. 


\ 

was peopled all through, in every corner, with her fancies. 
Don’t tell me she had nothing hut her niggardly outside 
living there. 

And the wonder began to come up in her mind, as it did 
in Faith Gartney’s, whether and when “ something might 
happen ” to her. 


CHAPTER V, 


SOMETHING HAPPENS. 

Athirst ! athirst ! The sandy soil 
Bears no glad trace of leaf or tree j 
No grass-blade sigheth to the heaven 
Its little drop of ecstasy. 

Yet other fields are spreading wide 
Gr<5en bosoms to the bounteous sun ; 
And palms and cedars shall sublime 
Their rapture for thee, — waiting one ! 


Take us down to see the apple-woman,” said Master 
Herbert, going out with Glory and the baby one day when 
his school did n’t keep, and Mrs. Grabbling had a head- 
ache, and wanted to get them all off out of the way. 

Bridget Foye sat at her apple-stand in the cheery morn- 
ing sunlight,^ red cheeks and russets ranged fair and tempt- 
ing before her, and a pile of roasted pea-nuts, and one of 
delicate molasses-candy, such as nobody but she knew how 
to make, at either end of the board. 

Bridget Foye was the tidiest, kindliest, merriest apple- 
woman in all Mishaumok. Everybody whose daily path 
kiy across that southeast corner of the Common, knew her 
well, and had a smile, and perhaps a penny for her ; and 
got a smile and a God-bless-you, and, for the penny, a rosy 
or a golden apple, or some of her crisp candy in return. % 
Glory and the baby, sitting down to rest on one of the 


86 FAITH GAFTHFr’S GIELIIOOD. 


benclies close by, as their habit was, had one day made a 
nearer acquaintance with blithe Bridget. I think it began 
with Glory — who held the baby up to see the passing show 
of a portion of a menagerie in the street, and heard two 
girls, stopping just before her to look, likewise, say they ’d 
go and see it perform next day — uttering something 
of her old soliloquy about “good times,” and why she 
“ warn’t ever in any of ’em.” However it was, Mrs. Foye, 
in her buxom cheeriness, was drawn to give some of it 
forth to the uncouth-looking, companionless girl, and not 
only began a chat with her, after the momentary stir in the 
street was over, and she had settled herself upon her stool, 
and leaning her back against a tree, set vigorously to work 
again at knitting a stout blue yam stocking, but also 
treated Bubby and. Baby to some bits of her sweet mer- 
chandise, and told them about the bears and the monkeys 
that had gone by, shut up in the gay, red-and-yellow-painted 
wagons. 

It was between her busy times of trade. The buzz of 
bigger trade and toil had long ago begun “ down town,” 
and the last tardy straggler had passed by, on his way to 
the day’s labor of hand or brain. Children were all in 
school. Here, in the midst of the great, bustling city, was 
a green hush and quiet ; and from this until noon Bridget 
had but chance and scattering custom. Nursemaids and 
babies did n’t afford her much. Besides, they kept, for the 
most part, to the upper walks. There are fashions among 
nursemaids as among their betters. 

Glory had no acquaintance among the smart damsels who 
perambulated certain exclusive localities, in charge of ele- 
gant little carriages heaped up inside with lace, and feathers, 
and embroideries, in the midst of which peeped out with 


FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOH 37 


difficulty the wee human face which served as nucleus and 
excuse for all the show. 

So it became, after this first opening, Glory’s chief .pleas- 
ure to get out with the children now and then, of a sunny 
day, and sit here on the bench by Bridget Foye, and hear 
her talk, and tell her, confidentially, some of her small, 
incessant troubles. It was one more life to draw from, — a 
hearty, bright, and wholesome life, beside. She had, at 
last, in this great, tumultuous, indifferent city, a friendship 
and a resource of her own. 

But there was a certain fair spot of delicate honor in 
Glory’s nature that would not let her bring Bubby and Baby 
in any apparent hope of what they might get, gratuitously, 
into their mouths. She laid it down, a rule, with Master 
Herbert, that he was not to go to the apple-stand with her 
unless he had first put by a penny for a purchase. And so 
unflinchingly she adhered to this determination, that some- 
times weeks went by, — hard, weary weeks, without a bit 
of pleasantness for her ; weeks of sore pining for a morsel 
of heart-food, — before she was free of her own conscience 
to go and take it. 

Bridget told stories to Herbert, — strange, nonsensical 
fables, to be sure, — stuff that many an overwise mother, 
bringing up her children by hard rule and theory, mighik 
have utterly forbidden as harmful trash, — yet that never 
put an evil into his heart, nor crowded, I dare to say, a bet- 
ter thought out of his brain. Glory liked the stories as 
well, almost, as the child. One moral always ran through’ 
them all. Troubles always, somehow, came to an end; 
good creatures and children got* safe out of them all, and 
lived happy ever after ; and the fierce, and cunning, and 
tad, — the wolves, and foxes, and witches, — trapped 
4 


38 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


themselves in their own wickednesses, and came to deplor- 
able ends. 

“ Tell ns about the little red hen,” said Herbert, paying 
his money, and munching his candy. 

“ An’ thin ye ’ll trundle yer hoop out to the big tree, an’ 
lave Glory an’ me our lane for a minute ? ” 

“ Faith, an I will that,” said the boy, — aping, ambi- 
tiously, the racy Irish accent. 

“ Well, thin, there was once’t upon a time, away off in 
the ould country, livin’ all her lane in the woods, in a wee 
bit iwa house be herself, a little rid hin. Nice an’ quite 
she was, and nivir did no kind o’ harrum in her life. An’ 
there lived out over the hill, in a din o’ the rocks, a crafty 
ould felly iv a fox. An’ this same ould villain iv a fox, he 
laid awake o’ nights, and he prowled round shly iv a day- 
time, thinkin’ always so busy how he ’d git the little rid hin, 
an’ carry her home an’ bile her up for his shupper. But the 
wise little rid hin nivir went intil her bit iv a house, but 
she locked the door afther her, an’ pit the kay in her pocket. 
So the ould rashkill iv a fox, he watched, an’ he -prowled, 
an’ he laid awake nights, till he came all to skin an’ bone, 
on’ sorra a ha’porth o’ the little rid hin could he git at. 
But at lasht there came a shcame intil his wicked ould head, 
an’ he tuk a big bag one, mornin’, over his shouldher, and 
he says till his mother, says he, ‘ Mother, have the pot all 
bilin’ agin’ I come home, for I ’ll bring the little rid hin to- 
night for our shupper.’ An’ away he wint, over the hill, 
an’ came craping shly and soft through the woods to where 
the little rid hin lived in her shnug bit iv a house. An’ 
shure, jist at the very minute that he got along, out comes 
the little rid hin out iv the door, to pick up shticks to bile 
her tay -kettle. ‘ Begorra, now, but I ’ll have yees,’ says the 


FAITH GARTHEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


89 


silly ould fox, and in he shlips, unbeknownst, intil the 
liouse, an’ hides behind the door. An’ in comes the little 
rid hin, a minute afther, with her apron full of shticks, an’ 
shuts to the door an’ locks it, an’ pits the kay in her pocket. 
An’ thin she turns round, — an’ there shtands the baste iv 
a fox in tho corner. Well, thin, what did she do, but jist 
dhrop down her shticks, and fly up in a great fright and 
flutter to the big bame acrass inside o’ the roof, where the 
fox could ’nt get at her ? 

“ ‘Ah, ha!’ says the ould fox, ‘I’ll soon bring yees 
down out o’ that!’ An’ he began to whirrul round, an’ 
round, an’ round, fashter an’ fashter an’ fashter, on the floor, 
afther his big, bushy tail, till the little rid hin got so dizzy 
wid lookin’, that she jist tumbled down off the bame, and 
the fox whipped her up and popped her intil his bag, and 
shtarted off home in a minute. An’ he wint up the wood, 
an’ down the wood, half the day long, with the little rid hin 
shut up shmotherin^ in the bag. Sorra a know she knowd 
where she was, at all, at all. She thought she was all biled 
an’ ate up, an’ finished, shure ! But, by an’ by, she remim- 
bered herself, an’ pit her hand in her pocket, and tuk out 
her little bright schissors, and shnipped a big hole in the 
bag behind, an’ out she leapt, an’ picked up a big shtono 
an’ popped it intil the bag, an’ rin aff home, an’ locked the 
door. 

“ An’ the fox he tugged away up over the hill, with the 
big shtone at his back thumpin’ his shouldhers, thinkin’ to 
himself how heavy the little rid hin was, an’ what a fine 
shupper he ’d have. An’ whin he came in sight iv his din 
in tlie rocks, and shpied his ould mother a watchin’ for him 
at the door, he says, ‘ Mother ! have ye the pot bilin’ ? ’ 
An’ the ould mother says, ‘ Sure an’ it is ; an’ have ye tho 


40 FAITH GAHTNEY'S GIRLHOOD, 


little rid hin? ^ * Yes, jist here in me bag. Open the lid 

o’ the pot till I pit her in,’ says he. 

“ An’ the ould mother fox she lifte’d the lid o’ the pot, 
and the rashkill untied the bag, and hild it over the pot o’ 
bilin’ wather, an’ shuk in the big, heavy shtone. An’ the 
bilin’ Tvather shplashed up all over the rogue iv a fox, an* 
his mother, an’ shcalded them both to 4eath. An’ the little 
rid hin lived safe in her house foriver afther.” 

‘‘Ah!” breathed Bubby, in intense relief, for perhaps 
the twentieth time. “Now tell about the girl that went to 
seek her fortune ! ” 

“ Away wid ye I ” cried Bridget Boye, “ Kape yer prom- 
ish, an’ lave that till ye come back I ” 

So Herbert and his hoop trundled off to the big tree. 

“ An’ how are yees now, honey? ” says Bridget to Grloiy, 
a whole catechism of questions in the one inquiry. “ Have 
ye come till any good times yit ? ” 

“Oh, Mrs. Foye,” says Glory, “I think I’m tied up 
tight in the bag, an’ I ’ll never get out, except it ’s into the 
hot water ! ” 

“An’ havint ye nivir a pair iv schissors in yer pocket? ” 
asks Bridget. 

“ I don’t know,” says poor Glory, hopelessly. And just 
then Master Herbert comes trundling back, and Bridget 
tells him the story of the girl that went to seek her fortune 
and came to be a queen. 

Glory half thinks that, some day or other, she, too, will 
start off and seek her fortune. 

The next morning, Sunday,—- never a holiday, and 
scarcely a holy day to her, — Glory sits at the front win- 
dow, with the inevitable baby hi her arms. 

Mrs. Grabbling is up stairs getting ready for church 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 41 


After baby has bis forenoon drink, and is got off to sleep, 
— supposing be sbaU be complaisant, and go, — GJory is to 
dust up, and set table, and warm tbe dinner, and be all 
ready to bring it up when tbe elder Grubblings shall have 
returned, a hungered. 

Out at tbe Pembertons* green gate she sees tbe tidy par- 
lor-maid come, in her smart shawl and new, bright ribbons ; 
bolding up her pretty printed mousseline dress with one 
band, as she steps down upon the street, and so revealing 
tbe white hem of a clean starched skirt ; while tbe other 
band is occupied with the little Catholic prayer-book and a 
folded handkerchief. Actually, gloves on her hands, too. 
The gate closes with a cord and pulley after her, and some- 
how the hem of the fresh, outspreading crinoline gets caught 
in it, as it shuts. So she turns half round, and takes both 
hands to push it open and release herself. Doing so, some- 
thing slips from between the folds of her handkerchief, and 
drops upon the ground. A bright half dollar, which was 
going to pay some of her littje church dues to-day. And 
she hurries on, never missing it out of her grasp, and is 
half way down the side street before Glory can set the baby 
suddenly on the carpet, rush out at the front door, regard- 
less that Mrs. Grabbling’ s chamber window overlooks her 
from above, pick up the coin, and overtake her. 

“ I saw you drop it by the gate,” is all she says, as she 
puts it into Katie Kyan’s hand. 

Katie stares with surprise, turning round at the touch 
upon her shoulder, and beholding the strange figure, and 
the still stranger evidence of honesty and good-will. 

Indeed, and I ’m thoroughly obliged to ye,” says she, 
barely in time, for the odd figure is already retreating up 
the street. “ It ’s the red-headed girl over at Grubblings,” 

4 * 


42 FAITH GAMTHET'S GIBLHOOD. 

she continues to herself. “ Well, anyhow, she ’s an honest, 
kind-hearted crature, and I ’ll not forget it of her.” 

Glory has made another friend. 

“ Well, Glory McWhirk, this is very pretty doings in- 
deed ! ” began Mrs. Grabbling, in a high key, which had a 
certain peculiar ring also of satisfaction in it, at finding 
fair and obvious reason this time for a hearty fault-finding, 

— meeting the little handmaiden at the parlor door whither 
she had hurried down to confront her in her delinquency, 

— “So this is the way, is it, when my back is turned for 
a minute ? That poor baby dumped down on the fioor, to 
crawl up to the hot stove, or do any other horrid thing he 
likes, while you go fiacketting out, bareheaded, into the 
streets, after a topping jade like that ? You can’t have any 
high-flown acquaintances while you live in my house, I tell 
you now, once and for all. Are you going to take up that 
baby or not? ” Mrs. Grabbling had been thus far efiectually 
heading Glory off, by standing square in the parlor door- 
way. “ Or perhaps, I ’d betl^r stay at home and take care 
of him myself,” she added, in a tone of superlative irony, 
as suggesting an alternative not only utterly absurd and 
inadmissible, but' actually appalling, — - as if she had pro- 
posed to take off her head, instead of her bonnet, and sac- 
rifice that to the temporary amusement of her child, and the 
relief of Glory. 

Poor Glory, meekly murmuring that it was only to give 
back some money the girl had dropped, slid past her mis- 
tress submissively, like a sentry caught off nis post and 
warned of mortal punishment, and shouldered arms once 
more ; that is, picked up the baby, who, as if taking the 
cue from his mother, and made conscious of his grievance^ 
had at this moment begun to cry. 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


43 


Mrs. Grabbling, notwithstanding her shaken confidence, 
pat on her gloves, of which she had been sewing ap the 
tips, jast now, by the window, when she witnessed Glory’s 
escapade, and departed, leaving the girl to her “ pacifying ” 
office, safficienfly secare that it woald be falfilled. 

Glory had a good cry of her own first, and then, “ killing 
two birds with one stone,” pacified herself and the baby 
“ all ander one.” 

After this, Katie Kyan never came oat at the green gate, 
of a Sunday on the way to charch, or of a week-day to ran 
down the little back street of an errand, bat she gave a 
glance ap at the Grabblings’ windows ; and if she canght 
sight of Glory’s illamined head, nodded her own, with its 
prett^g, dark brown locks, qaite pleasant and friendly. And 
between these chance recognitions of Katie’s, and the good 
apple-woman’s occasional sympathy, the world began to 
brighten a little, even for poor Glory. 

Still, good times went on, — grand, wonderfal good times, 

all aroand her. And she caaght distant glimpses, bat 

“ was n’t in ’em.” 

One day, as she harried home from the grocer’s with half- 
a-dozen eggs and two lemons, Katie ran oat from the gate, 
and met her half way down Badd Street. 

I ’ve been watchin’ for ye,” said she. “ I seen ye go 
oat of an errand, an’ I ’ve been lookin’ for ye back. There ’s 
to be a grand party at oar hoase to-morrow night, an’ I 
thoaght may be ye ’d like to get lave, an’ ran over to take 
a peep at it. Pat on yer best frock, and make yer hair 
tidy, an’ I ’ll see to yer gettin’ a good chance.” 

Poor Glory colored ap, as Mrs. Grabbling might have 
done if the President’s wife had bidden her. Not so, either. 
With a glow of feeling, and an oppression of gratitade, and 


44 FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD, 


a humility of delight, that Mrs. Grabbling, under any cir- 
cumstances whatever, could have known nothing about. 

“If I only can,” she managed to utter, “and, anyhow, 
I ’m sure I ’m thankful to ye a thousand times.” 

And that night she sat up in her little ^tic room, after 
everybody else was in bed, mending, in a poor fashion, a 
rent in the faded “ best frock,” and sewing a bit of cotton 
lace in the neck thereof that she had picked out of the rag- 
bag, and surreptitiously washed and ironed. 

Next morning, she went about her homely tasks with an 
alacrity that Mrs. Grabbling, knowing nothing of the hope 
that had been let in upon her dreariness, attributed wholly 
to the salutary effect of a “good scolding” she had admin- 
istered the day before. The work she got out of the girl 
that Thursday forenoon ! Never once did Glory leave her 
scrubbing, or her dusting, or her stove-polishing, to glance 
fr'om the windows into the street, though the market-boys, 
and the waiters, and the confectioners’ parcels were going in 
at the Pembertons’ gate, and the man from the green-house, 
even, drove his cart up, filled with beautiful plants for the 
staircase. 

She waited, as in our toils we wait for Heaven, — trust- 
ing to the joy that was to come. 

After dinner, she spoke, with fear and trembling. Her 
lips turned quite white with anxiety as she stood before 
Mrs. Grabbling with the baby in her arms. 

The lady had been far from unobservant, on her own part, 
all the day, of what was going on upon her richer neigh- 
bor’s premises. Her spirit was not attuned to gentle charity 
just then. Her mood was not that of gracious compliance. 
Let us be pitiful to her, also. She, too, saw “ good times” 
going on, and felt, bitterly, that she “was n’t in ’em.” 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 45 


** Please, mum,” says Glory, tremulously, “ Katie Eyan 
asked me over for a little while to-night to look at the 
party.” 

Mrs. Gruhhling actually felt a jealousy, as if her poor, 
untutored handmaid were taking precedence of herself. 

“What party?” she snapped, — nothing else occurring 
to her, in the sudden shock, to say. 

“ At the Pei^ertons’, mum. I thought you knew 
about it.” 

“ And what if I do? Maybe I ’m going, myself.” 

Glory opened her eyes wide in mingled consternation and 
surprise. 

“ I did n t think you was, mum. But if you is — ” 

“ You^re willing, I suppose,” retorted her mistress, laugh- 
ing, in a bitter way. “I’m very much obliged. But I ’m 
going out to-night, anyhow, whether it ’s there or not, and 
you can’t be spared. Besides, you need n’t think you ’re 
going to begin with going out evenings yet awhile. At your 
age ! A pretty thing ! There, — go along, and don ’t bother 
me.” 

Glory went along ; and only the' baby — of mortal listen- 
ers — heard the suffering cry that went up from her poor, 
pinched, and chilled, and disappointed heart. 

“ Oh, baby, baby ! it was too good a time I I ’d ought 
to a knowed I could ’nt be in it ! ” 

Mr. and Mrs. Grabbling did go out that night. Whether 
it was a sudden thought, suggested by Glory’s application, 
or a previous resolve adopted by the mistress that she 
might be out of the way of the tantalizing merriment oppo- 
site, I will not undertake to say. It is sufficient that there 
was a benefit play at one of the secondary theatres, and 
that Mrs. Grubbling there forgot her jealousies, and the 


46 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHO’OD, 


pangs, so far as she had at all understood them, of Glory 
McWhirk. 

So safe as she felt, having hidden her stay, that Glory 
would be faithful at her post, and “mind” her children 
well ! 

Only a stoned’s throw from those brightly-lighted windows 
of the Pembertons’. Their superfluous radiance pouring 
out lavishly across the narrow street, seai^ed even through 
the dim panes behind which Glory sat, resting her tired 
arms, after tucking away their ordinary burden in his crib, 
and answering Herbert’s wearisome questions, who from his 
trundle-bed kept asking, ceaselessly, — 

“ What are they doing now? Can’t you see. Glory ? ” 

“ Hush, hush ! ” said Glory, breathlessly, as a burst of 
brilliant melody floated over to her ear. “ They ’re making 
music now. Don’t you hear? ” 

-^^No. How can I, with my head in the pillow? I ’m 
^ coming there to sit with you. Glory.” And the boy scram- 
bled from his bed to the window. 

“No, no! you’ll ketch cold. Besides, you’d oughter go 
' to sleep. Well, — only for a little bit of a minute, then,” 
as Herbert persisted, and climbing upon her lap, flattened 
his face against the window-pane, to look as closely as might 
be at the show. 

Glory gathered up her skirt about his shoulders and held 
him for awhile, begging him uneasily, over and over, to 
“be a good boy, and go back to bed.” No ; he would n’t 
be a good boy, and he would n’t go back to bed, till the 
music paused. Then, by dint of promising that if it began 
again she would open the window a “ teenty little crack,” 
* so that he might hear it better, she coaxed him to the point 
of yielding, and tucked him, chilly, yet half unwilling, in 
the trundle. 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 47 


Back again, to look and listen. And, oh, wonderful and 
'unexpected fortune ! A beneficent hand has drawn up the 
white linen shade at one of the back parlor windows to 
slide the sash a little from the top. It was Katie, whom 
her young mistress, standing with her partner at that cor- 
ner of the room, had called in from the hall to do it. 

“Ko, no,” whispered the young lady, hastily, as her 
companion moved to render her the service she desired, 
“ let Katie come in. She ’ll get such a good look down the 
•room at the dancers.” There was no abated admiration in 
the young man’s eye, as he turned back to her side, and 
allowed her kindly intention to be fulfilled. 

Did Katie surmise, in her turn, with the freemasonry of 
her class, how it was with her humble friend over the way. — 
that she could n’t get let out for the evening, and that she 
would be sure to be looking and listening from her old j)ost 
opposite ? However it was, the linen shade was not lowered 
again, and there between the lace and crimson curtains 
stood revealed the graceful young figure of Edith Pember- 
ton, in her floating ball robes, with the wreath of morning- 
glories in her hair. 

“Oh, my sakes and sorrows! Aint she just like a 
princess? Aint it a splendid time? And I come so near 
to be in it 1 But I aint ; and I s’pose I shan’t ever get 
a chance again. Maybe Katie ’d get me over of a com- 
mon work-day though, sometime, to help her a bit or so. 
Would n’t I be glad to? ” 

“ Oh, for gracious, child I Don’t ever come here again. 
You ’ll catch your death. You ’ll have the croup and whoop- 
ing-cough, and everything to-morrow.” This to Herbert, 
who had of course tumbled out of bed again at Glory’s first 
rapturous exclamation. 


48 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


“ No, I won’t ! ” cried the boy, rebelliously ; I ’ll stay aa 
long as I like. And I ’ll tell my ma how you was a wantin’ 
to go away and be the Pembertons’ girl. Won’t she lamm 
you when she hears that? ” 

“You can tell wicked lies if you want to. Master Her- 
bert ; but you know I never said such a word, nor ever 
thought of it. Of course I could n’t if I wanted to ever so 
bad.” 

“Couldn’t live there? I guess not. Think they’d 
have a girl like you ? What a lookin’ you ’d be, a-comin’ 
to the front door answerin’ the bell ! ” 

“Now, Master Herbert,” implored Gloiy, magnanimously 
ignoring the personal taunt, and intent only on the health 
and safety of the malicious little scapegrace, who I believe 
would rather have caught K horrible cold tl^an not, if only 
Glory might bear the blame, and he be kept in from 
school and have the monopoly of her services to “ keep him 
pacified ” — “do just go back to bed with you, like a good 
boy, and I ’ll make a tent over the baby, and open a teenty 
crack of the windy. The music ’s beginnin’ again.” 

Here the door bell rang suddenly and sharply, and Master 
Herbert fancying, as did Glory, that it was his mother come 
back, scrambled into his bed again and covered himself up, 
while the girl ran down to answer the summons. 

It was Katie Kyan, with cakes and sweetmeats in her 
hands. 

“I’ve jist rin in to fetch ye these. Miss Edith gave 
’em me, so ye need n’t be feared. I knows ye ’re sich an 
honest one. An’ it ’s a tearin’ shame, if ever there was, that 
ye could n’t come over for a bit of diversion. Why don’t 
ye quit this? ” 

“ Oh, hush I ” whispered Gloiy, with a gesture up the 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 49 


staircase, where she had just left the little pitcher with 
fearfully long ears. “And thank you kindly, over and 
over, I ’m sure. It ’s real good o’ you to think o’ me so — 
oh ! ” And Glory could n’t say anything more for a quick 
little sob that came in her throat, and caught the last word 
up into a spasm. 

“ Pooh ! it ’s just nothing at all. I ’d do something bet- 
ter nor that if I had the chance ; an’ I ’d adwise ye to get 
out o’ this if ye can. Good-bye. I ’ve set the parlor windy 
open, an’ the shade ’s up. I knew it would jist be a con- 
wenience.” 

Katie skipped over the street,, that was scarcely more 
than a gutter, and disappeared through the green gate. 

Glory ran up the back stairs to the top of the house, and 
hid away the s^^eet things in her own room to “ make a 
party” with next day. And then she went down and 
tented over the crib with an old woolen shawl, and set a 
high-backed rocking-chair to keep the draft from Herbert, 
and opened the window “a teenty crack,” according to 
promise. In five minutes the slight freshening of the air 
and the soothing of the music had sent the boy to sleep, 
and watchful Glory closed the window and set things in 
their ordinary arrangement once more. 

Next morning Herbert made hoarse complaint, and was 
kept in from school. 

“ What did you let him do, Glory, to catch such a cold? ” 
asked Mrs. Grubbling, who assumed for granted, whatever 
was amiss, that Glory must have done, or let be done, or left 
undone something. 

“Nothing, mum, only he would get out of bed to hear , 
the music,” replied the girl. 

“ Well, you opened the window, you know you did, and 
5 


60 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


Katie Eyan came over and kept tlie front door open. And 
you said how you wished you could go over there and do 
their chores. I told you 1 ’d tell.” 

“It’s wicked lies, mum,” hurst out Gloiy, indignant 
“ I never said no such thing.” 

“ Do you dare to tell him he lies, right before my face, 
you good-for-nothing girl ? ” shrieked the exasperated moth- 
er. “ Where do you expect to go to ? ” 

“ I don’t expect to gO nowheres, mum ; and I would n’t 
say it was lies if he did n’t tell what was n’t true.” 

“ How should such a thing come into his head if you 
did n’t say it? Who do you suppose I ’d believe first? ” 

“There’s many things comes into his head,” answered 
Glory, stoutly and simply, “and I think you’d oughter 
believe me first, when I never told ypu a lie in my life, and 
you did ketch Master Herbert fibbing, jist the other day, 
but.” 

Somehow, Glory had grown strangely bold in her own 
behalf since she had come to feel there was a bit of sympa- 
thy somewhere for her in the world. 

“ I know now where he learns it,” retorted the mistress, 
with persistent and angry injustice. 

Glory’s face blazed up, and she took an involuntary step 
to the woman’s side at the stinging and warrantless accusa- 
tion. 

“ You don’t mean that, mum, and you ’d oughter take it 
back,” said she, excited bej^ond all fear and habit of sub- 
mission. 

;Mrs. Grabbling raised her hand, passionately, and struck 
the girl upon the cheek. 

“I mean that, then, for your impudence I Don’t answer 
me up again ! ” 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 61 


“No, mum,’’ said Glory, in a low, strange tone; quite 
white now, except where the vindictive fingers had left their 
crimson streaks. And she went off out of the room without 
another word. 

Over the knife-board she revolved her wrongs, and sharp- 
ened at length the keen edge of desperate resolution. 

“ Please, mum,” said she, in the old form of address, but 
with quite a new manner, that, in the little dependant of 
less than fifteen, startled the hard mistress, as she recog- 
nized it, “ I aint noways bound to you, am I? ” 

She propounded her question, stopping short in her return 
toward the china-closet through the sitting-room, and con- 
fronting the enemy with both hands full of knives and forks 
that bristled out before her like a concentrated charge of 
bayonets. 

“Bound? What do you mean?” parried Mrs. Grab- 
bling, dimly foreshadowing to herself what it would be if 
Glory should break loose, and go. 

“ To stay, mum, and you to keep me, till I ’m growed 
up,” answered Glory, briefly. . 

“ There ’s no binding about it,” replied the mistress. 
“ Of course I wouldn’t be held to anything of that sort. I 
shan’t keep you any longer than you behave yourself.” 

“ Then if you please, mum, P think I ’ll go,” said Glory. 
And she burst into a passion of tears, which she wiped first 
with the back of one hand, and then with the other, — the 
bright steel blades and tines flashing up and down danger- 
ously about her head, like lightnings about a rain cloud. 

“ Humph ! AVhere? ” asked Mrs. Grubbling, sarcastically. 

“I don’t know, yet,” said Glory, the sarcasm drying her 
tears, as she moved on to the closet and deposited her knives 
and forks in the tray. “ I ’spose I can go to a office.” 


62 FAITH GAFTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


“ And where ’ll you get your meals and your lodgings 
till you find a place ? ” The cat thought she had her paw 
on the mouse, now, and could play with her as securely and 
cruelly as she pleased. 

“If you go away at all,” continued Mrs. Gruhhling, 
with what she deemed a finishing stroke of policy, “ you 
go straight off. I ’ll have no dancing back and forth to 
offices from here.” 

“Do you mean right off, this- minute? asked Glory, 
aghast. 

“ Yes, just that. Pack up and go, or else let me hear no 
more about it.” 

The next thing in Glory’s programme of duty was to lay 
the table for dinner. But she went out of the room, and 
slowly off, up stairs. 

Pretty soon she came down again, with her eyes very 
swelled and tearful, and her shabby shawl and bonnet on. 

“I’m going, mum,” said she, as one resolved to face 
calmly whatever might befall. “I didn’t mean it to be 
sudden, but it are. And I would n’t never a gone, if I ’d a 
thought anybody cared for me the leastest bit that ever 
was. I wouldn’t mind bein’ worked and put upon, and 
not havin’ any good times ; but when people hates me, and 
goes to say I doesn’t tell the truth,” — here Glory broke 
down, and the tears poured over her stained cheeks again, 
and she essayed once more instinctively to dry them, which 
reminded her that her hands again were full. 

“ It ’s some goodies — from the party, mum,” — she 
struggled to say between short breaths and sobs, “that 
Katie Eyan give me, — an’ I kept — to make a»party — 
for the children, with — to-day, mum, — when the chores > 
was done, — and I ’ll leave ’em — for ’em, — if you please.’' 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 63 


Glory laid her coals of fire upon the table as she spoke. 
Master Herbert eyed them, as one utterly unconscious of a 
scorch. 

“ I ’spose I might come back and get my bundle,” said 
Glory, standing still in the hope of one last kindly or relent- 
ing word. 

“ Oh, yes, if you get a place,” said her mistress, dryly, 
affecting to treat the whole affair as a childish, though un- 
wonted burst of petulance; and making sure that a few 
hours would see Glory back, subdued, discouraged, peni- 
tent, and ready to bear the double task of to-morrow that 
should make up for the rebellion and lost time of to-day. 

But Glory, not daring, unbidden, even to kiss the baby, 
went steadily and sorrowfully out into the street, and drew 
the door behind her, that shut with a catch-lock, and fast- 
ened her out into the wide world. 

Not stopping to think, she hurried on, up Budd and down 
Branch Street, and across the green common-path to the 
apple-stand and Bridget Foye. 

“ I ’ve done it ! I Ve gone ! And I don’t know what to 
do, nor where to go to I ” 

“ Arrah, poor little rid hin ! So, ye ’ve found yer schis- 
sors, have ye, an’ let yersel’ loose out o’ the bag? Well, 
it ’s I that is glad, though I would n’t pit ye up till it,” 
says Bridget Foye, washing her hands in innocency. 

Poor little red hen. She had cut a hole, and jumped out 
of the bag, to be sure ; but here she was, “ all alone by 
herself” once more, and the foxes — Want and Cruelty — 
ravening after her all through the great, dreary wood ! 

This day, at least, passed comfortably enough, however, 
'although with an undertone of sadness, — in the sunshine, 
by Bridget’s apple-stand, watching the gay passers-by, and 
5 * 


64 FAITH GARTJSfET^S GIRLHOOD, 


filiaping some humble hopes and plans for the future. For 
dinner, she shared Mrs. Foyers plain bread and cheese, and 
made a dessert of an apple and a handful of peanuts. At 
night Bridget took her home and gave her shelter, and the 
next day she started her off with a “ God-bless-ye and good- 
luck-till-ye,” in the charge of an older girl who lodged in 
the same building, and who was also out after a place.” 


CHAPTEK VI. 


lUNT HENDERSON^S GIRL-HUNT. 

“ Black spirits and white, 

Red spirits and gray j 
IHingle, mingle, mingle, 

You that mingle may.” 

Macbeth, 

It was a small, close, dark room, — Mrs. Griggs’s Intel- 
ligence Office, — a little counter and show-case dividing off 
its farther end, making a sanctum for Mrs. Griggs, who 
combined a little of the tape-and-button business with her 
more lucrative occupation, and who sat here in immovable 
and rheumatic ponderosity, dependant for whatever involved 
locomotion on the rather alarming alacrity of an impish- 
looking granddaughter, who, just at the moment whereof I 
write, is tearing in at the street door, and elbowing her way 
through the throng of applicants for places and servants, 
quite regardless of the expression of horror and astonish- 
ment she has called forth on the face of a severe-looking, 
elderly lady, who, by her impetuous onset, has been rudely^ 
thrust back into the very arms of a fat, unsavory cook with 
whom she had a minute before been quite unwillingly set 
to confer by the high-priestess of the place, and who had 
almost equally relieved and exasperated her, by remarking, 
as she glanced over her respectable but somewhat unstylish 


56 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


figure and dress, that she “ guessed it would n’t he worth 
while to talk about it, for she had never lived with any but 
fust-class ladies, and her wages was three-and-a-half.” 

Aunt Henderson grasped Faith’s hand as if she felt she 
had brought her into a danger, and held her close to her 
side while she paused a moment to observe, with the strange 
fascination of repulsion, the manifestation of a phase of 
human life and the working of a vocation so utterly and 
astoundingly novel to herself. 

Well, Melindy,” said Mrs. Griggs, salutatorily. 

Well, grandma,” answered the girl, with a pert air of 
show-off and consequence, “ I found the place, and I found 
the lady. Aint I been quick ? ” 

“ Yes. What did she say ? ” 

Said the girl left last Saturday. Aint had anybody 
sence. Wants you to send her a first-rate one, right off, 
straight. Has Care’/me been here after me ? ” 

“No. Did you get the money?” 

“ She never said a word about it. Guess she forgot the 
month was out.” 

“ Did n’t you ask her? ” 

Me ? No. I did the arrant, and stood and looked at 
her, — jest as pious — ! And when she did n’t say nothin’, 
I come away.” 

“ Winny M’Goverin,” said Mrs. Griggs, “ that place ’ll 
suit you. Leastways, it must, for another month. You ’d 
better go right round there.” 

“ Where is it ? ” asked the fat cook, indifferently, over 
Miss Henderson’s shoulder. 

“ Up in Mount Pleasant Street, Number 53. First-class 
place, and plenty of privileges. Margaret McKay,” she 
continued, to another, who stood with a waiting expression 


FAITH GAETNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 57 


beside the counter, “you^re too hard to please. Here’s 
one more place,” — handing, her a card with address, — 
‘‘and if you don’t take that, I won’t do nothing more 
for you, if you azr Scotch and a Protestant! Mary 
McGinnis, it ’s no use your talking to that lady from the 
country. She can’t spare you to come down but twice or 
so a year.” 

“ Lord ! ” ejaculated Mary McGinnis, “I would n’t live 
a whole year with no lady that ever was, let alone the 
country ! ” 

“Come out, Faith!” said Miss Henderson, in a deep, 
ineffable tone of disgust, drawing her niece to the door, just 
in time to escape a second charge of Miss Melindy’s, who 
was dashing in that direction ^again, to “look down street 
after Care’ line .” . 

“ If ikat’s a genteel West End Intelligence Office,” cried 
Aunt Faith, as she touched the sidewalk, “let’s go down 
town and try some of the common ones.” 

A large hall, — where the candidates were ranged on 
settees under order and restraint, and the superintendent, 
or directress, occupied a desk placed upon a platform near 
the entrance, — was the next scene whereon Miss Hender- 
son and Faith Gartney entered. Things looked clean and 
respectable. System obtained here. Aunt Faith felt en- 
couraged. But she made no haste to utter her business. 
Tall, self-possessed, and dignified, she stood a few paces 
inside the door, and looked down the apartment, surveying 
coolly the faces there, and analyzing, by a shrewd mental 
process, their indications. 

Her niece had stopped a moment on the landing outside 
to fjisten her boot-lace. 

Miss Henderson did not wear hoops. Also, the streets 


68 FAITH GAETNEY'S GIELIIOOD. 


being sloppy, she bad tucked up her plain, gray merino dress 
over a quilted black alpaca petticoat. Her boots were 
splashed, and her black silk bonnet was covered with a large 
gray barege veil, tied down over it to protect it from the 
dripping roofs. Judging merely by exterior, one unskilled 
in countenance would hardly take her at a glance, indeed, 
for a “fust-class” lady. 

The directress — a busy woman, with only half a glance 
to spare for any one — moved toward her. 

“ Take a seat, if you please. What kind of a place do 
you want ? ” 

Aunt I'aith turned full face upon her, with a look that 
was prepared to be overwhelming, if it met impertinence. 

“I’m looking for a place, ma’am, where I can find a 
respectable girl.” 

Her film, emphatic utterance was heard to the farthest 
end of.the hall. 

The girls tittered. 

Aunt Taith sent her keen eyes quickly over the benches. 

Faith Gartney came in at this moment, and walked up 
quietly to Miss Henderson’s side. There was visibly a new 
impression made, and the tittering ceased. Especially as 
the directress also enforced order with a look and word of 
authority. 

“ I beg pardon, ma’am. I see. But we have so many 
in, and I did n’t fairly look. General housework ? ” 

“Yes; general and particular — both. Whatever I set 
her to do.” 

The directress turned toward the throng of faces whose 
fire of eyes was now all concentrated on the unflinching 
countenance of Miss Henderson. 

“ Ellen Mahoney I ” 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD.- 59 


A stout, well-looking damsel, with an expression that 
seemed to say she answered to her name, but was neverthe- 
less persuaded of the utter uselessness of the movement, 
half rose from her seat. 

“ You need n’t call up that girl,” said Aunt Faith, de- 
cidedly ; “ I don’t want her.” 

Ellen Mahoney had giggled among the loudest. 

“ She knows what she does want! ” whispered a decent- 
appearing young woman to a girl at her side with an eager 
face looking out from a friz of short curly hair, “ and that ’s 
more than half of ’em do. She ’s a real sensible woman, 
and the young one ’s just a picture to look at. I ’d try for 
it myself, only I ’m half engaged to the one that had me up 
a mjnute ago.” 

“ Country, did you say, ma’am ? or city ? ” asked the 
directress once more of Miss Henderson. 

“ I did n’t say. It ’s country, though, — twenty miles 
out.” 

“What wages?” 

“ I ’ll find the girl first, and settle that afterwards.” 

“ Anybody to do general housework in the country, 
twenty miles out?” 

The prevailing expression of the assemblage changed. 
There was a settling down into seats, a withdrawing of 
earnest and curious glances, and a resumption of knitting 
and needlework. 

One pair of eyes, however, looked on, even more eagerly 
than before. One young girl, — she with the short curly 
liair, — who had been gazing at the pretty face of Faith 
since she came in as if it had been a vision, and who 
had n’t,seen the country, and had hardly heard it named, 
for six years and more last gone of her young life, and 


60 . FAITH GARTNFT^S GIRLHOOD. 


could witli difficulty conceive that there should he any 
straight or easily traversed path out of these interminable 
city walls into the breadth and beauty, that came to her as 
a far-off recollection in her dreams of delight, — caught 
her breath, convulsively, at the word. 

“I wish I dar’st! I’ve a great mind!” whispered she 
to her tidy companion. 

While she hesitated, a slatternly young woman, a few 
seats furtfier forward, moved, with a “don’t care” sort of 
jjook, to answer the summons. 

. “ Oh, dear 1 ” sighed the first, quite sure of her own wish 
now that she perceived herself anticipated, “I’d ought to 
a done it ! ” 

“ I don’t think she would take a young girl like you,” 
replied her friend. 

“That’s the way it always is!” exclaimed the disap- 
pointed voice, in forgetfulness and excitement uttering 
itself aloud. “ Plenty of good times going, but they all 
go right by. I aint never in any of ’em ! ” 

“ G-lory McWhirk ! ” chided the directress from her desk, 
“be quiet ! Eemember the rules, or leave the room.” 

“ Call that red-headed girl to me,” said Miss Henderson, 
turning square round from the dirty figure that was pre- 
senting itself before her, and addressing the desk. “ She 
looks clean and bright,” she added, aside, to Faith, as 
Glory timidly yet hastily answered a signal and approached. 
“ And poor. And longing for a chance. I ’ll have her.” 

A girl with a bonnet full of braids and roses, and a look 
of general knowingness, started up close at Miss Hender- 
son’s side, and* interposed, while Glory was yet on her way. 

“Did you* say twenty miles, mum? , How often could I 
come to town?” 


FAITH GARTHFT^S GIRLHOOD, 61 


“You have n’t been asked to go out of town, that I know 
of,” replied Miss Henderson, frigidly, abashing the office- 
hahituee. who had not been used to find her catechism cut 
so summarily short, and moving aside to speak with Glory. 

“ What was it I heard you say just now ? ” 

“I didn’t mean to speak out so, mum. It was only 
what I mostly thinks. That there ’s always lots of good 
times in the world, only I aiflt never in ’em.” 

“ And you thought it would he good times, did you, to 
go off twenty miles into the country, to live alone with an 
old woman like me ? ” 

Miss Henderson’s tone softened kindly to the rough, un- 
couth girl, and encouraged her to confidence. 

“ Well, you see, mum, I should like so to go where things 
is green and pleasant. I lived in the country once, — ever 
so long ago, — when I was a little girl.” 

Miss Henderson could not help a smile that was half 
amused, and wholly pitiful, as she looked in the face of this 
creature of fourteen, so strange and earnest, with its out- 
line of fuzzy, cropped hair, and heard her talk of “ ever so 
long ago.” 

“ There ’s only just the Common here, you know, mum. 
And that ’s when all the chores is done. And you can’t go 
on the grass, either.” 

“ Are you strong ? ” 

“ Yes ’m. I aint never sick.” 

“ And willing to work? ” 

“ Yes ’m. Jest as much as I know how.” 

“ And want to learn more ? ” 

“ Yes’m. I don’t know as I ’d know enough hardly, to 
begin, though.” 

“ Can you wash dishes ? And sweep ? And set table ? ” 
6 


62 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


To each of these queries Glory successively interposed an 
affirmative monosyllable, adding, gratuitously, at the close, 
“ And tend baby, too, real gopd.” Her eyes filled, as she 
thought of the Grubbling baby with the love that always 
grows for that whereto one has sacrificed one’s-self. 

“ You won’t have any babies to tend. Time enough for 
that when you ’v6> learnt plenty of other things. Who do 
you belong to ? ” * 

“ I don’t belong to anybody, mum. Pather, and mother, 
and grandmother is all dead. I ’ve done the chores hnd 
tended baby up at Mrs. Grubbling’s ever since. That ’s in 
Budd Street. I ’m staying now in High Street, with Mrs. 
Foye. Number fifteen.” 

“ I ’ll come after you to-morrow. Have your things ready 
to go right off.” 

“I’m 50 glad you took her, auntie,” said Faith, as they 
went out. “ She looks as if she hadn’t been well treated. 
Think of her wanting so to go into the country ! I should 
like to do something for her, myself.” 

“ That ’s my business,” answered Aunt Faith, curtly, 
but not crossly. “You ’ll find somebody to do for, if you 
look out. If your mother ’s willing, though, you might 
mend up one of your old school dresses for her. ’Tis n’t 
likely she’s got anything to begin with.” And so saying, 
Aunt Faith turned precipitately into a dry-goods store, 
where she bought a large plaid woolen shawl, and twelve 
yards of dark calico. Coming out, she darted as suddenly, 
and apparently unpremeditatedly, across the street into a 
milliner’s shop, and ordered home a brown rough-and-ready 
straw bonnet, and four yards of ribbon to match. 

“ And that you can put on, too,” she said to Faith. 

That evening. Faith was even unwontedly cheery and 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


63 


busy, taking a burned half-breadth out of a dark cashmere 
dress, darning it at the armhole, and pinning the plain rib- 
bon over the brown straw bonnet. 

A.t the same time. Glory, all unconscious of the great 
things preparing for her, went up across the city to Brfdd 
Street, with a mingled heaviness and gladness at her heart, 
and, after a kindly farewell interview with good-natured 
Katie Kyan at the Pembertons’ green gate, rang, with a 
half guilty feeling at her own independence, at the Grub- 
blings’ door. “ Bubby ” opened it. 

“ Why, ma! ” he shouted up the staircase, “it’s Gloiy 
come back ! ” 

“ I ’ve come to get my bundle,” said the girl. 

Mrs. Grubbling had advanced to the stair-head, some- 
what briskly^ with the wakeful baby in her arms. Two 
days’ “ tending ” had greatly mollified her sentiments to- 
ward the offending Glory. 

“ And she ’s come to get her bundle,” added the young 
usher, from b6low. 

Mrs. Grubbling retreated into her chamber, and shut 
herself and the baby in. 

Poor Glory crept up stairs to her little attic, like a house- 
breaker. 

Coming down again, she set her bundle on the stairs, and 
knocked. 

“ What is it? ” was the ungracious response. 

“Please, mum, mightn’t I say good-bye to the baby?” 

The latch had slipped, and the door was already slightly 
ajar. Baby heard the accustomed voice, and struggled in 
his mother’s arms. 

“A pretty time to come disturbing him to do it I” 
grumbled she. Nevertheless, she set the baby on the floor, 


64 FAITH GARTHEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


who tottled out, and was seized by Glory, standing there m 
the dark entry, and pressed close in her poor,, long- wearied, 
faithful arms. 

“ Oh, baby, baby ! I ’m in it now ! And I don’t know 
rightly whether it ’s a good time or not ! ” 


CHAPTER VII. 


CARES ; AND WHAT CAME OP TUjBM. 

'* To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow ; 

To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow ; 

To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares ; 

To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dispaires.” 

Spenser. 

Two years and more had passed since the New Year's 
dance at the Rushleighs’. 

The crisis of ’57 and ’58 was approaching its culmina- 
tion. The great earthquake that for months had been 
making itself heard afar off by its portentous rumbling 
was heaving to the final crash. Already the weaker houses 
had fallen and were forgotten. The statelier edifices were 
tottering and crumbling on every side. Men saw great cracks 
and fissures opening at their feet, and hardly dared move to 
the right hand or to the left. All through the great city, 
when the pavements were stilPat night, and the watchmen 
paced their quiet rounds, who might count the chambers 
where lay sleepless heads, revolving feverishly the ways and 
means for the morrow ? Ah ! God only knows the life that 
wakes and struggles when the outer, daily, noisy life of a 
great metropolis is laid asleep I 

When a great financial trouble sweeps down upon a 
people, there are three general classes who receive and fee) 
it, each in its own peculiar way. 

6 * 


66 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


There are the great capitalists, — the enormously rich, — 
who, unless a tremendous combination of adversities shall 
utterly ruin here and there one, grow the richer yet for the 
calamities of their neighbors. There are also the very poor, 
who have nothing to lose but their daily labor and their daily 
bread, — who may suffer and starve ; but who, if by any 
little saving of a better time they can manage just to buy 
bread, shall be precisely where they were, practically, when 
the storm shall have blown over. Between these lies the great 
middle class, — among whom, as on the middle ground, the 
world’s great battle is continually waging, — of persons who 
are neither rich nor poor ; who have neither secured for- 
tunes to fall back upon, nor yet the independence of their 
hands to turn to, when business and its income fail. This 
is the class that suffers most. Most keenly in apprehension, 
in mortification, in after privation. 

Of this class was the Gartney family. 

Mr. Gartney was growing pale and thin. No wonder; 
with sleepless nights, and harassed days, and forgotten, or 
unrelished meals. His wife watched him and jvaitcd for 
him, and contrived special comforts for him, h.nd listened 
to his confidences, and turned in her brain numberless plans 
and possibilities within her limited sphere of action. 

This is what women do ^en the world “ on ’change ” is 
seething, and tossing, and agonizing in the clutch of a ^eat 
commercial crisis. 

Taith felt that there was a cloud upon the house, and 
knew that it had to do with money. So she hid her own 
little wants as long as she could, wore her old ribbons, 
mended last year’s discarded gloves, and yearned vaguely 
and helplessly to do something, — some great thing if she 
only could, that might remedy or help. 


FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD. 67 


Once, she thought she would leam Stenography. She 
had heard somebody speak one day of the great pay a lady 
short-hand- waiter had received at Washington, for some 
Concessional reports. TOy should n’t she leam how to do 
it, and perhaps, some time or other, if the terrible worst 
should ever come to the worst, make known her secret 
resource, and earn enough for all the family ? 

Something like this, — some “ high and holy work of 
love,” — she longed to do. Longed almost, — if she were once 
prepared and certain of herself, — for even misfortune that 
should justify and make practicable her generous purpose. 

She got an elementary book, and set to work, by herself. 
She toiled wearily, every day, at such times as she could 
command, for nearly a month ; despairing at every step, yet 
persevering; for, beside the grand dream for the future, 
there was a present fascination in the queer little scrawls 
and dots, the mystic keys to such voluminous meaning, that 
held her interested, of itself. 

Well, and how did it all end? 

She did n’t master the short-hand art, of course. Every- 
body knows that is a work for patient years. It cannot be 
known how long she might have gone on with the attempt, 
if her mother had not come to her one day with some par- 
cels of cut-out cotton cloth. ^ 

Eaithie, dear,” said she, deprecatingly, “ I don’t like 
to put such work upon you while you go to school ; but you 
have a good deal of leisure time, after all ; and I ought not 
to afford to have Miss McElroy this spring. Can’t you 
make up some of these with me before the summer?” 

They were articles of clothing for Faith, herself. She 
felt the present duty upon her ; and how could she rebel ? 
Yet what was to become of the great scheme and the heroic 


68 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


future? She couldn’t help thinking — if her mother had 
only known how this leisure of hers was really being used, 
would she have brought her all this cotton to stitch ? 

What then ? Could she never do anything better than 
this ? Meantime, the stitching must be done. 

By-and-by would come vacation, and in the following 
spring, at furthest, she would leave school, and then — she 
would see. She would write a book, may bfe. Why not? And 
secretly dispose of it, for a large sum, to some self-regardless 
publisher. Should there never be another Fanny Burney 1 
Not a novel, though, or any grown-up book, at first ; but ^ 
juvenile, at least, she could surely venture on. Look at all 
the Cousin Maries, and Aunt Fannies, and Sister ilioes, 
whose productions piled the booksellers’ counters during the 
holiday sales, and found their way, sooner or later, into all 
the nurseries, and children’s bookcases ! And think of all 
the stories she had invented to amuse Hendie with ! Better 
'than some of these printed ones, she was quite sure, if only 
she could set them down just as she had spoken them under 
the inspiration of Hendie’s eager eyes and ready glee. 

She made two or three beginnings, during the summer 
holidays, but always came to some sort of a “ sticking- 
place,” which couldn’t be lobbied over in print as in ver- 
bal relation. , All the link? must be apparent, and every- 
thing be made to hold well together. She would n’t have 
known what they were, if you had asked her, — but the 
“ unities ” troubled her. And then the labor loomed up 
so large before her ! She counted the lines in a page of a 
book of the ordinary juvenile size, and the number of letters 
in a line, and found out the wonderful compression of which 
manuscript is capable. And there must be two hundred 
pages, ?it least, to make a book of tolerable size. 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 69 


She remembered bow her elder brother, now away off in 
San Francisco, bad told ber once, wnen sbe was a very little 
girl, that be was going to make ber a baby-bouse. Sucb a 
wonderful baby-bouse as it was to be! It should have 
three stories, and the proper number of furnished rooms in 
each, and doll inhabitants, likewise, of marvellous wiry 
mechanism, that should move and walk about. (Long be- 
fore the Peripatetikos, or whatever they call the wind-up 
walking dolls, were thought of by any older brain, mind 
you 1 ) And how all he ever did about it, when urgfid to 
execution, was to take his little hatchet out into the wood- 
shed and chop away upon a shapeless log 1 Always making 
a visionary beginning, — always unfolding fascinating plans, 
— believing in them devoutly, and never getting really and 
fairly into the work 1 Ah, how we all build, and build, 
and make such feeble actual strokes toward completion ! 

So Faithie’s brain-puppets waited in limbo, and could 
not by any sorcery of hers be evoked from shade into life 
and action. 

There seemed to be nothing in the world that she could 
do. She could not give her time to charity, and go about 
among the poor. She had nothing to help them with. Her 
father gave, already, to ceaseless applications, more than he 
could positively spare. So every now and then she relin- 
quished in discouragement her aspirations, and fell into the 
ordinary channel again, and lived on, from day to day, as 
other girls did, getting what pleasure she could ; hampered 
continually, however, with the old, inevitable tether, of 
“can’t afford.” 

“ If something only would happen ! ” If some new cir- 
cumstance would creep into her life, and open the way fjr 
a more real living I 


70 FAITH GAETNFT'S GIRLHOOD. 

Do you think girls of seventeen don’t have thoughts and 
longings like these ? I tell you they do ; and it is n’t that 
they want to have anybody else meet with misfortune, or 
die, that romantic combinations may thereby result to them ; 
or that they are in haste to enact the every-day romance, — 
to secure a lover, — get married, — and set up a life of their 
own ; it is that the ordinary marked-out bound of civilized 
young-lady existence is so utterly inadequate to the fresh, 
vigorous, expanding nature, with its noble hopes, and its 
apprehension of limitless possibilities. 

Something did happen. 

Winter came on again. After a twelvemonth of struggle 
and pain such as none but a harassed man of business can 
ever know or imagine, Mr. Gartney found himself “ out 
of the wood,” and safe, as it were, in open country once 
more ; but stripped, and torn, and bruised, and weary, and 
seeing no path before him over the wide, waste moor. 

He had survived the shock, — his last note was taken 
up, — he had labored through, — and that was all. He 
was like a man from off a wreck, who has brought away 
nothing but his life. 

He came home one morning from New York, whither he 
had been to attend a meeting of creditors of a failed firm, 
and went straight to his chamber with a raging headache. 

The next day, the physician’s chaise was at the door, and 
on the landing, where Mrs. Gartney stood, pale and anxious, 
gazing into his face for a word, after -^e visit to the sick 
room was over. Dr. Gracie drew on his gloves, and said to 
her, with one foot on the stair, — “ Symptoms of typhoid. 
Keep him absolutely quiet.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


^ NICHE IN LIFE, AND A "WOMAN TO PILL IT. 

“ A Traveller between Life and Death.” 

WORDSWORTHi 

Miss Sampson was at home this evening. It was not 
what one would have pictured to one’s-self as a scene of 
home comfort or enjoyment ; hut Miss Sampson was at 
home. In her little room of fourteen feet square, up a 
dismal flight of stairs, sitting, in the light of a single lamp, 
by her air-tight stove, whereon a cup of tea was keeping 
warm ; that, and the open newspaper on the little table in 
the comer, being the only things in any way cheery about 
her. 

Not even a cat or a canaiy-bird had she for companion- 
ship. There was no cozy arrangement for daily feminine 
employment ; no work-basket, or litter of spools and tapes ; 
nothing to indicate what might be her daily way of going 
on. On the broad ledges of the windows, where any other 
woman would have had a plant or two, there was no array 
of geraniums or verbenas — not even a seedling orange-tree 
or a monthly-rose. But in one of them lay a plaid shawl 
and a carpet-bag, and in the other that peculiar and nearly 
obsolete piece of feminine property, a paper bandbox, tied 
about with tape. 


72 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


— Packed up for a journey ? 

Eeader, Miss Sampson was always packed up. She wag 
that much-enduring, all-foregoing creature, a professional 
nurse. 

There would have been no*one to feed a cat, or a canary- 
bird, or to water a rose-bush, if she had had one. Her 
home was no more to her than his station at the corner of 
the street is to the handcart-man or the hackney-coachman.. 
It was only the place where she might receive orders ; 
whence she might go forth to the toilsomeness and gloom 
of one sick-room after another, returning between each 
sally and the next to her cheerless post of waiting, — keep- 
ing her strength for others, and living no life of her own. 
She dwelt, as it were, in the dim and desolate border-land 
that lies between the stirring world and the unconscious 
grave ; now going down into the verge of the infinite gloom 
with one who must pass beyond it, and now upholding and 
helping one who struggles back to the light of earth ; but 
never tarrying long herself among the living and the strong. 

There was nothing in Miss Sampson’s outer woman that 
would give you, at first glance, an idea of her real energy 
and peculiar force of character. She was a tall and slender 
figure, with no superfluous weight of flesh ; and her loDg, 
thin arms seemed to have grown long and wiry with lifting, 
and easing, and winding about the poor wrecks of mortality 
that had lost their own vigor, and were fain to beg a portion 
of hers. Her face was thin and rigid, too, — moulded to 
no mere graces of expression, — but with a strong outline, 
and a habitual compression about the mouth that told, you, 
when you had once learned somewhat of its meaning, of the 
firm will that would go straight forward to its object, and 
do, without parade or delay, whatever there might be to be 


FAITH GABTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


73 


done. Decision, determination, judgment, and readiness 
were all in that habitual look of a face on which little else 
had been called out for years. But you would not so have 
read it at first sight. You would almost inevitably have 
called her a “ scrawny, sour-looking old maid.” 

A creaking, deliberate, weighty step was heard upon the 
stair, and then a knock of decision at Miss Sampson’s door. 

“ Come in 1” ' • 

And as she spoke, Mifes Sampson took her cup and saucer 
in her hand. That was to be kept waiting no longer for 
whatever visitor it i5ight chance to be. She was compos- 
edly taking her first sip as Doctor Gracie entered. 

“ Don’t move, Miss Sampson ; don’t let me interrupt.” 

“ I don’t mean to ! ” answered the nurse, laconically 
“ What sends you here ? ” 

“ A new patient.” 

“ Humph ! Not one of the last sort, I hope. You know 
my kind, and ’t aint any use talking up about any others. 
Any old woman can make gruel, and feed a baby with cat- 
nip tea. Don’t offer me any more such work as that ! If 
it ’s work that is work, speak out ! — I ’m always ready.” 

“It’s work that nobody else can do for me. A critical 
case of typhoid, and nobody in the house that understands 
such illness. I ’ve promised to bring you to-night.” 

“You knew I was back, then ? ” 

“ I knew you would be. I only sent you at the pinch. 
I warned them you ’d go as soon as things were tolerably 
comfortable.” 

“ Of course I would. What business should I have 
where there was nothing wanted of me but to go to bed at 
nine o’clock, and sleep till daylight ? That aint the sort 
of corner I was cut out to fill.” 

7 




74 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


Well, drink your tea, and put on your bonnet. There ’s 
a carriage at the door.” 

“ Man? or woman ? ” asked Miss Sampson, setting down 
her empty cup on the now cooling stove. 

“A man, — Mr. Henderson Gartney, Hickory Street.” 

“ Out of his head ? ” 

“ Yes, — and getting more so. Family all frightened to 
death.” 

“ Keep ’em out of my way, then, and let me have him to 
myself. One crazy patient is enough, at a time, for any one 
pair of hands. I ’m ready.” 

The plaid shawl and bonnet were on, and^Miss Sampson 
had her bandbox in her hand. The doctor took up the car- 
pet-bag. 

In fifteen minutes more, they were in Hickory Street ; 
and the nurse was speedily installed, or rather installed 
herself, in her office. Dr. Gracie hastened away to another 
patient, promising to call again at bedtime. 

“Now, ma’am,” said Miss Sampson to Mrs. Gartney, 
who, after taking her first to the bedside of the patient, had 
withdrawn with her to the little dressing-room adjoining, 
and given her a resume of the treatment thus far followed, 
with the doctor’s last directions to herself, — “ you just go 
down stairs to your supper. I know, by your looks, you aint 
had a mouthful to-day. That ’s no way to help take care 
of sick folks.” 

Mrs. Gartney smiled a little, feebly ; and an expression 
■of almost childlike rest and relief came over her face. She 
felt herself in strong hands. 

“ And you? ” she asked. “ Shall I send you something 
here?” 

“ I ’ve drunk a cup of tea, before I started. If I see my 


FAITH GARTHET^S GIRLHOOD. 


75 


way clear, I ’ll run down for a bite after you get through. 
I don’t want any special providings. I take my nibbles 
anyhow, as I go along. You need n’t mind, more ’n as if I 
was n’t here. I shall find my way all over the house, and 
pick up what ’s necessary. Now, you go.” 

“Only tell me how he seems to you,” questioned Mrs. • 
Gartney, lingering anxiously. 

“ Well, — not so terrible sick. Just barely bad enough 
to keep me here. I don’t take any easy cases.” 

The odd, abrupt manner and speech comforted, while 
they somewhat astonished Mrs. Gartney. Only that she 
felt sure Dr. Grade would have brought her no one but the 
very person who ought to be here, she would have hardly 
known what to think of this rough-spoken, unceremonious 
woman. 

“Leave the bread and butter and cold chicken on the 
table,” said she to her parlor maid afterward, when the tea- 
things were about to be removed; “ and keep the chocolate 
hot, down stairs. Faithie, — sit here ; and if Miss Sampson 
comes down by-and-by, see that she is made comfortable.” 

It was ten o’clock -when Miss Sampson came down, and 
then it was with Dr. Gracie, who ha(J just made his last 
visit for the night. 

“ Cheer up, little lady I ” said the doctor, meeting Faith’s 
anxious, inquiring glance that sped so quickly and eagerly 
from one face to the other. “Not so bad, by any means, 
as we might be. The only difficulty will be to keep Nurso 
Sampson here. She won’t stay a minute, if we begin to get 
better too fast. Yes — I will take a bit of chicken,^! 
think; and — what have you there that’s hot?” as the 
maid came in with the chocolate pot, in answer to Faith’s 
ring of the bell. “Ah, yes! Chocolate! I missed my 



76 FAITH GAETNETIS GIRLHOOD. 

tea, someliow, to-niglit.” The “somehow” had been in 
his kindly quest of the best nurse in Mishaumok for Iiis 
long-time friend and patient. 

“ Sit down, Miss Sampson. Save muscle, when you can. 
Let me help you to a scrap of cold chicken. What? Drum- 
stick I Miss Faithie, — here is a woman who makes it a 
principle to go through the world, choosing drumsticks! 
She ’s a study ; and I set you to finding her out.” 

So the doctor chatted on, for the ten minutes of his fur- 
ther stay, and then took leave, ordering Faith off to bed, as 
he departed. 

Last night, as he had told Miss Sampson, the family had 
been “ frightened to death.” He had found Faith sitting 
on the front stairs, at midnight, when he came in at a sud- 
den summons, severer symptoms having declared themselves 
in the sick man. She was pale and shivering, and caught 
him nervously by both hands, as he ascended. 

“Oh, doctor!” 

“And oh, Mis^Faithiel This is no place for you. ^ou 
ought to be in bed.” 

“ But I can’t.. Mother is all alone, except Mahala. And 
I don’t dare stay up there, either. What shall do? 

For all answer, the doctor had just taken her in his arms, 
and carried her down to the sofa in the hall, where he laid 
her, and covered her over with his great-coat. There she 
staid, passively, till he came back. And then he told her, 
kindly and gravely, that if she could be quite quiet, and 
firm, she might go and lie on the sofa in her mother’s 
dressing-room for the remainde^ji^f the night, to be*at hand 
for any needed service. To-morrow he would see that they 
were otherwise provided. 

And so, to-night, here was Miss Sampson eating her 
drumstick. 


FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD. 


77 


Taith watched the hard lines of her face as she did so, 
and wondered what, and how much Dr. Gracie had meant 
by “ setting her to find her out.” 

“I’m afraid you have n’t had a very nice supper,” said 
she, timidly. “ Do you like that best ? ” 

Somebody must always eat drumsticks, 3 was the con- 
cise reply. 

And so, presently, without any farther advance toward 
acquaintance, they went up stairs ; and the house, under 
the new, energetic rule, soon subsided into quiet for the 
night 


7 * 


OHAPTEE IX. 


tllTB 0« DEATH? 

“ With God the Lord belong the issues from death.” — Ps. 68 ; liS. 

The nursery was a corner room, opening both into Faith’s 
and her mother’s. Hendie and Mahala Harris had been 
removed up stairs, and the apartment was left at Miss 
Sampson’s disposal. Mrs. Gartney’s bed had been made 
up in the little dressing-room at the head of the front 
entry, so that she and the nurse had the sick-room between 
them. 

Faith came down the two steps that led from her room 
into the nursery, the next night at bedtime, as Miss Samp- 
son entered from her father’s chamber to put on her night 
wrapper and make ready for her watch. 

“ How is he, nurse ? He will get well, won’t he ? What 
does the doctor say ? ” ^ 

“ Nothing,” said Miss Sampson, shortly. “ He don’t 
know, and he don’t pretend to. And that ’s just what 
proves he ’s good for something. He aint one of the sort 
that comes into a sick-room as if the Almighty had made 
him a kind of special dclegit, and left the whole concern to 
him. He knows there ’s a solemner dealing there than his, 
whether it ’s for life or death.” 


79 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. ' 

But lie can’t help thinhingT said Faith, tremblingly. 
“And I wish I knew. What do you — ?” But Faith 
paused, for she was afraid, after all, to finish the question, 
and to hear it answered. 

“I don’t think. I just keep doing. That’s my part. 
Folks that think too much of what’s a-coming, most likely 
won’t attend to what there is.” 

Faith vTas finding out, — a little of Miss Sampson, and 
a good deal of herself. Had she not thought too much of 
what might be coming? Had she not missed, perhaps, 
some of her own work, when that work was easier than 
now ? And how presumptuously she had wished for “ some- 
thing to happen! ” Was God punishing her for that ? 

“You just keep still, and patient, — and wait,” said 
Miss Sampson, noting the wistful look of pain. “ That ’s 
your work, and after all, maybe it ’s the hardest kind. And 
I can’t take it off folks’ shoulders,” added she to herself in 
an under- voice ; “ so I need n’t set up for the very toughest 
jobs, to be sure.” ^ 

“ I ’ll try,” answered Faith, submissively, with quivering 
lip, “ only if there should be anything that I could do, — 
to sit up, or anything, — you ’ll let me, won’t you ? ” 

“Of course I will,” replied the nurse, cheerily. “I 
shan’t be squeamish about asking when there ’& anything I 
really want done.” 

Faith moved toward the door that opened to her father’s 
room. It was ajar. She pushed it gently open, and paused. 
“ I may go in, may n’t I, nurse, just for a good-night look ? ” 

The sick man heard her voice, though he did not catch 
her words. 

“ Come in, Faithie,” said he, with one of his half-gleams 
of consciousness, “ I ’ll see you^ daughter, as long as I live. 


80 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


Faith’s heart nearly broke -at that, and she came, tear- 
fully and silently, to the bed-side, and laid her little, cool 
hand on her -father’s fefered one, and looked down on his 
face, worn, and suffering, and flushed, — and thought within 
herself, — it was a prayer and vow unspoken, — “Oh, it 
God will only let him live, I will find something that I can 
do for him ! ” 

And then she lifted the linen cloth that was laid over his 
forehead, and dipped it afresh in the bowl of ice-water be- 
side the bed, and put it gently back, and just kissed his 
hair softly, and went out into her own room. 

Three nights, — three days, — more, the fever raged. 
And on the fourth night after. Faith and her mother knew, 
by the scrupulous care with which the doctor gave minute 
directions for the few hours to come, and the resolute way 
in which Miss Sampson declared that “whoever else had a 
mind to watch, she should sit up till morning this time,” 
that the critical point was reached ; that these dark, silent 
moments that would flit by so fast, were to spell, as they 
passed by, the sentence of life or death. 

And so the midnight settled down upon the street and 
city, crowded full of human thought, and hope, and fear, 
but whose vital centre to them was all in that one, dim 
chamber. 

Faith would not be put by. Her mother sat on one side 
the bed, while the nurse busied herself noiselessly, or waited, 
motionless, upon the other. Down by the flreside, on a low 
stool, with her head on the cushion of an easy-chair, leaned 
the young girl, — her heart full, and eveay nerve strained 
with emotion and suspense. 

She will never know, precisely, how those hours went on. 
She can remember the low breathing from the bed, and 


FAITH GABTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


81 


the now and then half-distinct utterance, as the hrain wan- 
dered still in a dreamy, feverish maze ; and she never will 
forget the precise color and pattern of the calico wrapper 
that Nurse Sampson wore ; hut she can recollect nothing 
else of it all, except that, after a time, longer or shorter, 
she glanced up, fearfully, as a strange hush seemed to have 
come over the room, and met a look and gesture of the nurse 
that warned her down again, for her life. 

And then, other hours, or minutes, she knows not which, 
went by. 

And then, a stir, — a feeble word, — a whisper from 
Nurse Sampson, — ft low “ Thank God ! ” from her mother. 

The crisis was passed. Henderson Gartney lived. 


CHAPTER X. 


EOTJGH ENDS. 


“ So others shall 

Take patience, labor, to their heart and hand, 

From thy hand and thy heart, and thy braw cheer, 

And God’s grace fructify through thee to all.” 

Mrs. Browtting. 

M. S. What does that stand for ? ” said little Hendie, 
reading the white letters painted on the black leather bottom 
of nurse’s carpet-hag. He got hack, now, often, in the day- 
time, to his old nursery quarters, where his father liked to 
hear his chatter and play, for a short time together, — though 
he still slept, with Mahala, up stairs. “ Does that mean 
* Miss Sampson ” 

Eaiih glanced up from her stocking-mending, with a little 
fun and a little curiosity in her eyes. She, too, had noted 
the initials with a sort of wondering thought whether they 
could possibly mean anything else. Whether the stiff, dry, 
uncompromising woman whom she daily saw going method- 
ically through a round of hard and wearing duty, could 
have ev^r had a .Christian name to go by ; could ever have 
been a little Mary or Margaret. It seemed as if she must 
have come into the world tall, and straight, and pinched, 
and resolute, and gone to nursing sick people forthwith. 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 83 


That she could ever have lived a child -life, with nothing to 
do hut play, — that was a thing hardly to he believed. 

“ What does ‘ M.’ stand for? ” repeated Hendie. 

The nurse was “ setting to rights ” about the room. She 
turned round at the question, from hanging a towel straight 
over the stand, and looked a little amazed, as if she had 
almost forgotten, herself. But it came out, with a quick 
opening and shutting of the thin lips, like the snipping of 
a pair of scissors, — “ Mehitahle.” 

That was not so wonderful. Faith could believe that 
But she knew it could never have been anything shorter or 
softer. 

Faith had been greatly drawn to this odd, efficient woman. 
Beside that her skilful, untiring nursing had, humanly, been 
the means of saving her father’s life, which alone had 
warmed her with an earnest gratitude that was restless to 
prove itself, and that welled up in every glance and tone 
she gave Miss Sampson, there were a certain respect and 
interest that could not withhold themselves from one who 
so evidently worked on with a great motive that dignified 
her smallest acts. In whom self-abnegation was the under- 
lying principle of all daily doing. 

Miss Sampson had staid on at the Gartneys’, notwith- 
standing the doctor’s prediction, and her usual habit. And, 
in truth, her patient did not “ get well too fast.” She was 
needed now as really as ever, though the immediate danger 
which had summoned her was past, and the fever had gone. 
The months of overstrained effort and anxiety that had cul- 
minated in its violent attack were telling upon him now, in 
the scarcely less perilous prostration that followed. And 
Mrs. Gartney had quite given out since the excessive ten- 
sion of nerve and feeling had relaxed. She was almost ill 


84 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 

enoTigli to be regularly nursed herself. She alternated be- 
tween her bed in the dressing-room and an easy-chair oppo- 
site her husband’s, at his fireside. Miss Sampson knew 
when she was really wanted, whether the emergency were 
more or less obvious She knew the mischief of a change 
of hands at Such a time. And so she staid on, though she 
did sleep comfortably of a night, and had many an hour of 
rest in the daytime, when Faith would come into the nur- 
sery with a book, or her work-basket, and cemstitute herself 
her companion. 

Miss Sampson was to her like a book to be read, whereof 
she turned but a leaf or so at a time, as she had accidental 
opportunity, yet whose every page rendered up a deep, 
strong, — above all, a most ‘sound and healthy meaning. 

She turned over a leaf, one day, in this wise. 

“Miss Sampson, how came you, at first, to be a sick- 
nurse?” 

The shadow of some old struggle seemed to come over 
Miss Sampson’s face, as she answered, briefly, — 

“ I wanted to find the very toughest sort of a job to do.” 

Faith looked up, surprised. 

“ But I heard you tell my father that you had been nurs- 
ing more than twenty years. You must have been quite a 
young woman when you began. I wonder — ” and here 
Faith checked herself, lest her wondering should seem to 
verge upon impertinence. 

“ You wonder why I was n’t like most other young women, 
I suppose. AYhy I did n’t get married, perhaps, and have 
folks of my own to take care of? Well, I did n’t ; and the 
Lord gave me a pretty plain indication that He had n’t laid 
out that kind of a life for me. So then 1 just looked round 
to find out what better He had for me to do. And I hit 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


85 


on the very work I wanted. -A trade that it took all the 
old Sampson grit to follow. I made up my mind, as the 
doctor says, that somebody in the world had got to choose 
drumsticks, and I might as well take hold of one.” 

“ But don’t you ever get tired of it all, and long for some- 
thing to rest or amuse you ? ” 

“ Amuse ! I could n’t be amused, child. I ’ve been in too 
much awful earnest ever to be much amused again. No, I 
want to die in the harness. It ’s hard work I want. I 
could n’t have been tied down to a common, easy sort of life. 
I want something to fight and grapple with ; and I ’m 
thankful there ’s been a way opened for me to do good ac- 
cording to my nature. If I had n’t had sickness and death 
to battle against, I should have got into human quarrels, 
maybe, just for the sake of feeling ferocious.” 

“ And you always take the very W9rst and hardest cases. 
Doctor Grade says.” 

“ What ’s the use of taking a tough job if you don’t face 
the toughest part of it ? I don’t want the comfortable end 
of the business. Somebody ’s got to nurse small-pox, and 
yellow fever, and raving-distracted people ; and I know the 
Lord made me fit to do just that very work. There aint 
many that He does make for it, but I ’m one. And if I 
shirked, there ’d be a stitch dropped.” 

“ Yellow fever! where have you nursed that? ” 

“Do you suppose I didn’t go to Norfolk? I’ve nursed 
it, and I ’ve had it, and nursed it again. I ’ve been in the 
cholera hospitals, too. I ’m seasoned to most everything.” 

“ Do you think everybody ought to take the hardest thing 
they can find, to do ? ” 

“ Do you think everybody ought to eat drumsticks? We’d 
have to kill an unreasonable lot of fowls to let ’em I No. 


8 


86 FAITH GARTNET’S GIRLHOOD. 


T^e Lord portions out breast and wings, as well as legs. If 
He puts anything into your plate, take it.” 

Doctor Gracie always had a word for the nurse, when he' 
came ; and, to do her justice, it was seldom but she had a 
word to give him back. 

“ Well, Miss Sampson,” said he gayly, onn bright morn- 
ing, you ’re as fresh as the day. What pulls down other 
folks seems to* set you up. I declare you ’re as blooming as 
— twenty-five. 

“You — fib — like — sixty I It ’s no such thing ! And 
if it was, I ’d ought to be ashamed of it.” 

“ Prodigious! as your namesake, the Dominie, would say. 
Don’t tell me a woman is ever ashamed of looking young, 
or handsome ! ” 

“Now, look here. Doctor!” said Miss Sampson, with her 
firmest intonation, setting down a pitcher she had just brought 
in, and facing round to do battle, — “I never was hand- 
some ; and I thank the Lord He ’s given me enough to do 
in the world to wear off my young looks long ago ! And 
any woman ought to be ashamed that gets to be thirty and 
upwards, to say nothing of forty-five, and keeps her baby 
face on ! It ’s a sign she aint been of much account, any- 
how.” 

“ Oh, but there are always differences and exceptions,” 
persisted the doctor, who liked nothing better than to draw 
Miss Sampson out. “ There are some faces that take till 
thirty, at least, to bring out all their possibilities of good 
looks, and wear on, then, till fifty. I ’ve seen ’em. ^ And 
the owners were no drones or do-nothings, either. AVhat do 
you say to that? ” 

“ I say there ’s two ways of growing old. And growing 
old aint always growing ugly. Some folks grow old from 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 87 


the inside, out ; and some from the outside, in. There ’s old 
furniture, and there ’s growing trees ! ” 

“ And the trunk that is roughest below may branch out 
greenest a-top I ” said the doctor. 

But the conversation had got as nearly into poetry as was 
possible with practical Miss Sampson, and she broke it off, 
or brought it down, by saying, as she handed Mr. G-artney 
his port- wine tonic, — 

“ It ’s lucky we touched on bark, sir, or you might n’t 
have got your.strengthener to-day ! ” 

The talk Faith heard now and then, in her walks from 
home, dr when some of “ the girls ” came in and called her 
down into the parlor, — about pretty looks, and becoming 
dresses, and who danced with who at the “German” last 
night, and what a scrape Loolie Lloyd had got into with 
mixing up and misdating her engagements at the class, and 
the last new roll for the hair, — used to seem rather trivial 
and aimless to her in these days I 

Occasionally, when Mr. Gartney had what nurse called a 
“ good” day, he would begin to ask for some of his books 
and papers, with a thought toward business ; and then Miss 
Sampson would display her carpet-bag, and make a show of 
picking up things to put in it ; “ For,” said she, “ when 
you get at yoiir business, it ’ll be high time for me to go 
about mine.” 

“But only for half-an-hour, nurse! I’ll give you that 
much leave of absence, and then we’ll have things back 
again as they were before.” 

“ I guess you will 1 And further than they were be- 
fore. No, Mr. Gartney, you’ve got to behave. \worCt 
have them vicious-looking accounts about, and it don’t 
signify.” 


88 


FAITH GAETNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


“If it don’t, why not? ” But it ended in the accounts 
and the carpet-hag disappearing together. 

Until one morning, some three weeks from the beginning 
of Mr. Gartney’s illness, when, after a few days’ letting 
alone the whole subject, he suddenly appealed to the 
doctor. 

“Doctor,” said he, as that gentlema^i entered, “I must 
have Braybrook up here this afternoon. I dropped things 
just where I stood, you know. It ’s time to take an obser 
vation.” 

The doctor looked at his patient gravely. Apparently 
he saw that he must yield a point for the present. 

“ What must be, must, I suppose,” he said. But he 
added this, which startled Mrs. Gartney as she heard it, 
and set her husband into an uneasy thinking, for an hour 
after Doctor Gracie had gone. 

“Can’t you be content with simply picking up things, 
and putting them by, for this year? W'hat I ought to 
tell you to do would be to send business to the right 
about, and go off for an entire rest and change, for three 
months, at least.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, doctor ! ” 

“ Perhaps not, on one side of the subject. I feel pretty 
certain on the other, however.” 

Mr. Gartney did not send for Braybrook that afternoon. 
The next morning however he came, and the tabooed books 
and papers were got out. 

In another day or two, Miss Sampson did pack her car- 
pet-bag, and go back to her air-tight stove and solitary cups 
of tea. Her occupation in Hickory Street was gone. 

Was this all the Gartneys were ever to have in common 
with her ? Were the lives that had touched, — had coincided 


FAITH GAETNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


89 


for a little length, and gone together through a dee]^ experi- 
ence, — to separate and be nothing to each other henceforth, 
among all the tangle and criss-cross of human destiny and 
purpose? He who brings together and divides, and never 
without a meaning, knows. The lives had touched, — had 
qualified each other. 

8 * 


CHAPTER XI, 


CROSS CORNERS. 

O thou that pinest in the imprisonment of the Actual, and criest bit- 
terly to the Go^is for a kingdom, wherein to rule and create, know this of 
ft truth, the thing thou seekest is already with thee, ‘ here or nowhere,* 
couldstthou only see ! ’’ — Carlyle. 

“It is of no use to talk about it,” said Mr. Gartney, 
wearily. “If I live, — as long as I live, — I must do 
business. How else are you to get along? ” 

• “ How shall we get along if you do not live ? ” asked hia 
wife, in a low, anxious tone. 

“ My life ’s insured,” was all Mr. Gartney’s answer, after 
a minute’s pause. 

“ Father ! ” cried Faith, distressfully. 

Faith had been taken more and more into counsel and 
confidence with her parents since the time of the illness that 
had brought them all so close together. And more and 
more helpful she had grown, both in word and doing, since 
she had learned to look daily for the daily work set before 
her, and to perform it conscientiously, even although it con- 
sisted only of little things. She still remembered with enthu- 
siasm Nurse Sampson and the “ drumsticks,” and managed 
to pick up now and then one for herself. Small disagree- 
abilities, to be sure, they were, that she could find to take 
upon herself ; but she was learning to scorn the “ comforta- 

m- 



FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


91 


ble end of a business.” She bad taken in a lesson, — rather 
God had sent her one, — by the way, that was to fit her for 
future greater doing. Meantime she began to see, indis- 
tinctly, before her, the vision of a work that must be done 
by some one, and the duty of it pressed hourly closer home 
to herself. Her father’s health had never been fully re- 
established. He had begun to use his strength before, and 
faster than, it came. There was danger, — it needed no 
Doctor Gracie, even, to tell them so, — of grave disease, if 
this went on. And still, whenever urged, his answer was 
the same. “ Y/hat would become of his family \^hout his 
business?” 

Faith turned these things over and over*n her mind. 

“ Father,” said she, after a while, — the conversation hav- 
ing been dropped at the old conclusion, and nobody appear- 
ing to have anything more to say, — “I don’t know anything 
about business ; but I wish you ’d tell me how much money 
you ’ve got ! ” 

Her father laughed; a sad sort of laugh though, that 
was not so much amusement as tenderness and pity. Then, 
as if the whole thing were a mere joke, yet with a shade 
upon his face that betrayed there was far too much truth 
under the jest, after all, he took out his portmonnaie and 
told her to look and see. 

“ You know I don’t mean that, father I How much in the 
bank, and everywhere ? ” 

“ Precious little in the bank, now, Faithie. Enough to 
keep house with for a year, nearly, perhaps. But if I were 
to take it and go off and spend it in travelling, you can un- 
derstand that the housekeeping would fall short, can’t you ? ” 

Faith looked horrified. She was bringing down her vague 
ideas of money that came from somewhere, through her 


92 FAITH GARmFT^S GIRLHOOD. 


father’s pocket, as water coines''froai Lake Kinsittewink by 
the turning of a faucet, to the narrow point of actuality. 

“ But that is ’nt all, I know ! I ’ve heard you talk about 
railroad dividends, and such things.” 

“ Oh ! what does the Western Eoad pay this time ? ’’ asked 
his wife. 

‘‘I’ve had to sell out my stock there,” replied Mr. Gart- 
ney, with a sigh. 

“And where’s the money, father?” asked Faith, not 
curious, but bold with her good intent. 

“ Gone to pay debts, child,” was the answer. 

Mrs. Gartney si^id nothing, but she looked very grave. 
Her husband surmised, perhaps, that she would go on to 
imagine worse than had really happened, and so added, 
presently, — 

“I havn’t been obliged to sell all my railroad stocks, 
wifey. I held on to some. There ’s the New York Central 
all safe ; and the Michigan Central, too. That would n’t 
have sold so well, to be sure, just when I was wanting the 
money ; but things are looking better, now.” 

“ Father,” said Faithie, with her most coaxing little smile, 
“ please just take this bit of paper and pencil, and set down 
these stocks and things, will you ? ” 

The little smile worked its way ; and half in idleness, 
half in acquiescence, Mr. Gartney took the pencil and noted 
down a short list of items. 

“It’s very little. Faith, you see.” They ran thus : 

New York Central Eailroad . 20 shares. 

Michigan Central “ . . 15 “ 

Kinnicutt Branch “ . , 10 “ 

Mishaumok Insurance Co. . . 15 “ 

Merchants Bank . . , 30 “ 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


93 


** How much are the Shares worth, father ? ” asked per- 
sistent Faith. 

“Well — at this moment — so — and so — ” noting down 
against each the cash valuation. 

“ And now, father, please put down how much you get a 
year in dividends.” 

“Not always the same, little busybody.” 

Nevertheless he noted down the average sums. And the 
total was between six and seven hundred dollars. 

“But that is ’nt all. You ’ve got other things. Why, 
there ’s the house at Cross Corners.” 

“Yes, but I can’t let it, you know.” 

“ What used you to get for it ? ” 

“ Two hundred and fifty. For- house and land.” 

“ And you own this house,< too, father? ” 

“ Yes. This is your mother’s.” 

“ How much rent would this bring?” 

Mr. Gartney turned round and looked at his daughter. 
He began to see there was a meaning in her questions. And 
as he caught her eye, he read, or discerned without fully 
reading, a certain eager kindling there. 

“ Why, what has come over you, Faithie, to set you cate- 
chising so ? ” 

Faith laughed. 

“Just answer this, please, and I won’t ask a single ques- 
tion more to-night.” 

“About the rent? Why, this house ought to bring six 
hundred, certainly. And now, if the court will permit, I ’ll 
read the news.” 

Mr. Gartney took up the evening paper, and Faith sat 
thinking. 

When she went up to her own room, she carried thither 
the bit of paper, with its calculation. 


94 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


About a week after this, in tbe latter half of one of those 
spring days that come with. a warm breath to tell that sum- 
mer is glowing somewhere, and that her face is northward, 
Aunt Faith Henderson came out upon the low, vine-latticed 
stoop of her house in Kinnicutt. There is a st(5ry to tell of 
that house, innocent of paint, that has darkened and dark- 
ened in the suns and rains, and yet stood solidly, with infre- 
quent repairs of shingle and clapboard, for more than two 
hundred years. But it cannot be told at this moment, for I 
must tell you of another thing — Aunt Henderson’s surprise. 

She stood at the westerly end of this porch, looking down 
and off toward the sunset, that rolled its golden waves over 
the low, distant hills, till they seemed to fill up the broad 
meadow-space that intervened with a molten glory, sublimat- 
ing overhead into a glittering mist that melted out at last 
into the pure depth of blue. 

Aunt Henderson’s thoughts had wandered off as far, or 
farther, seemingly, than her eyes. 

Up the little foot-path. from the road, — across the bit of 
greensward that lay between it and the stoop, — came a 
quick, noiseless step, and there was a touch, presently, on 
the old lady’s arm. 

Faith Gartney stood beside her, in trim straw bonnet and 
shawl, with a black leather bag upon her arm. 

“ Auntie ! I ’ve come to make you a tiny little visit ! Till 
day after to-morrow.” 

Aunt Henderson wheeled round suddenly at the touch, — 
set her shoulders back against the house, which fortunately 
stood in the way, or she might have described such an arc 
of a circle as is included between two radii at right angles 
to each other and five feet six-and-a-half inches in length 
brought her thoughts home again from their far outstretch, 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 95 


and concentrated them as best she might on the pretty figure 
immediately before her. 

Faith Gartney ! However came you here ? And in such 
a fashion, too, without a word of warning, like — an angel 
from heaven ! ” Concluding her sentence with a simile some- 
what unexpected to herse^ growing out of those mingled 
impressions of the resplendent sky and Faithie’s fair, 
smiling face. 

“ I came up in the cars, auntie I I felt just like it ! Will 
you keep me ? ” 

“Glory! Glory McWhirk!” Like the good Vicar of 
Wakefield, Aunt Henderson liked often to give the whole 
name ; and calling, she disappeared round the corner of the . 
stoop, without ever a word of more assured welcome. 

“ Put on the teapot again, and make a slice of toast.” The 
good lady’s voice, going on with farther directions, was lost 
in the intricate threading of the inner maze of the singular 
old dwelling, and Faith followed her as far as the first apart- 
ment, where she set down her bag and removed her bonnet. 

It was a quaint, dim room, overbrowed and gloomed by 
the roofed projection of the stoop ; low-ceiled, high-wain- 
scoted and pannelled. All in oak, of the natural color, 
deepened and glossed by time and wear. The heavy beams 
that supported the floor above were undisguised, and left 
the ceiling in panels also, as it were, between. In these 
highest places, a man six feet tall could hardly have stood 
without bending. He certainly would not, whether he could 
or no. Even Aunt Faith, with her five feet, six-and-a-hal^ 
dropped a little of her dignity, habitually, when she entered. 
But then, as she said, “ A hen always bobs J^er head when 
she comes in at a barn-door.” Between the windows stood 
an old, old-fashioned secretary, that filled up from floor to 


96 FAITH GAHTNET^S GIRLIUOD. 


ceiling ; and over the fireplace a mirror of equally antique 
date tilted forward from the wall. Opposite the secretary, 
a plain mahogany table ; and eight high-backed, claw- footed 
chairs ranged stifily around the room. 

• Aunt Henderson was proud of her old ways, her old fur- 
niture, and her house, that waft older than all. 

Some far back ancestor and early settler had built it, — 
the beginning of it, — before Kinnicutt had even become a 
town ; and — rare exception to the changes elsewhere — 
generation after generation of the same name and line had 
inhabited it until now. Aunt Faith, exultingly, told each 
curious visitor that it had been built precisely two hundred 
and ten years. Out in the back kitchen, or lean-to, was hung 
to a rafter the identical gun with which the “ old settler” had 
ranged the forest that stretched then from the very door ; 
and higher up, across a frame contrived for it, was the 
“ wooden saddle ” fabricated for the back of the placid, slow- 
moving ox, in the time when horses were as yet rare in the 
new country, and used with pillions, to transport I can’t 
definitely say how many of the family to “ meeting.” 

Between these, — the best room and the out-kitchen, — 
the labyrinth of sitting-room, bedrooms, kitchen proper, 
milk-room and pantry, partitioned off, or added on, many of 
them since the primary date of the main structure, would 
defy the pencil of modern architect, and must be left in 
their dim confusion to the imagination. 

In one of these irregularly clustered apartments that 
opened out on different aspects, unexpectedly, from their 
conglomerant centre, Faith sat, some fifteen minutes after 
her entrance^into the house, at a little round table between 
two corner windows that looked northwest and southwest, 
and together took in the full radiance of the evening sky. 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


97 


Opposite sat her aunt, taking care of her as regarded tea, 
toast, and plain country loaf-cake, and watching somewhat 
curiously, also, her face. 

Eaith’s face had changed a little since Aunt Henderson 
had seen her last. It was not the careless girl’s face she 
had known. There was a thought in it now. A thought 
that seemed to go quite out from, and forget the self from 
which it came. 

Aunt Henderson wondered greatly what sudden whim or 
inward purpose had brought her grgind-niece hither. 

When Faith absolutely declined any more tea or cake, 
Miss Henderson’s tap on the table-leaf brought in G-lory 
McWhirk. 

A tall, well-grown girl of eighteen was G-lory, now, — 
quite another Glory than had lightened, long ago, the dull 
little house in Budd Street, and filled it with her bright, 
untutored dreams. The luminous tresses had had their 
way since then ; that is, with certain comfortable bounds 
prescribed ; and rippled themselves backward from a clear, 
contented face, into the net that held them tidily, but had 
its — meshes — full to do it, after a style of their own, that 
in these later days Fashion and Art have striven hopelessly 
to achieve with crimping-pins and — “ rats ! ” 

I said Glory’s face was contented ; yet it was not with 
the utter content of a little soul that looks not beyond the 
moment. There was a yearning and a dreaminess deep in 
her eyes, when you looked far enough to find it, that told, 
even yet, of unfulfilment ; of something unconsciously 
waited for. still, and sure to come. It was one of those 
faces that, find them where you may, carry God’s prophecy 
in them. 

Faith looked up, and remembered the poor office-girl of 
9 


98 


FAITH GARTJSfET^S GIRLHOOD, 


three years since, half clad and hopeless, with a secret 
amaze at what “ AuntTaith had made of her.” 

“ You may give me some water, Glory,” said Miss Hen- 
derson. 

Glory brought the pitcher, and poured into the- tumbler, 
and gazed at Faith’s pretty face, and the dark-brown glossy 
rolls that framed it, until the water fairly ran over upon the 
table. 

“ There ! there ! Why, Glory, what are you thinking 
of? ” cried Miss Henderson. 

Glory was thinking her old thoughts, — wakened always 
by all that was beautiful and beyond. 

She came suddenly to herself, however, and darted off, 
with her face as bright a crimson as her hair was golden ; 
flashing up so, as she did most easily, into as veritable a 
« Glory as ever was. Never had baby been more aptly or 
prophetically named. 

Coming back, towel in hand, to stop the freshet she had 
set flowing, she dared not give another glance across the 
table ; but went busily and deftly to work, clearing it of all 
that should be cleared, that she might make her shy way 
off again before she should be betrayed into other unwonted 
blundering. 

“ And now. Faith Gartney, tell me all about it! What 
sent you here? ” 

“Nothing. Nobody. I came, aunt. I wanted to see 
the place, and you.” 

The rough eyebrows were bent keenly across the table. 

“Hum!*’ breathed Aunt Henderson, a little doubtful, 
and very much puzzled. 

Then Faith asked the news in Kinnicutt, and told of home 
matters, what people usually tell, and consider that they 



FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


99 


have given account of themselves. Aunt Hcndersc n’s ques- 
tions were few. She cared little for outside commonplace, 
and there was small interior sympathy between her ideas 
and those that governed the usual course of affairs in Hick- 
ory Street. Fond of her nephew and his family, after her 
fashion, notwithstanding Faith’s old rebellion, and all other 
differences, she certainly was ; hut they went their way, and 
she hers. She felt pretty sure theirs would sooner or later 
come to a turning ; and when that should happen, whether 
she should meet them round the corner, or not, would de- 
pend. Her path would need to bend a little, and theirs to 
make a pretty sharp angle, first. 

But here was Faith cutting across lots to come to her! 
Aunt Henderson put away her loaf-cake in the cupboard, 
set back her chair against the wall in its invariable position 
of disuse, and departed to the milk-room and kitchen for 
her evening duty and oversight. 

Glory’s hands were busy in the bread-bowl, and her brain 
kneading its secret thoughts that no one knew or inter- 
meddled with. 

Faith sat at the open window of the little tea-room, and 
watched the young moon’s golden horn go down behind the 
earth-rim among the purple, like a flamy flower bud floating 
over, and so lost. 

And the three lives gathered in to themselves, separately, 
whatsoever the hour brought to each. 

At nine o’clock Aunt Faith came in, took down the great 
leather-bound Bible from the corner shelf, and laid it on the 
table. Glory appeared, and seated herself beside the door. 

For a few moments, the three lives met in the One Great 
Life that overarches and includes humanity. Miss Hender- 
son read from the sixth chapter of St. John. 

They were fed with the five thousand. 


CHAPTER XII. 


A RECONNOISSANCE. 

“Then said his Lordship, ‘Well, God mend all!* ‘Nay, Donald, 
must help Him to mend it,’ said the other.” — Quoted by Carlyle. 

“ Oh, leave these jargons, and go your way straight to God’s work in 
simplicity and singleness of heart! ” — Miss Nightingale. 

“ Atjntie,” said Eaith, next morning, when, after some 
exploring, she had discovered Miss Henderson in a little 
room, the very counterpart of the one she had had her tea 
in the night before, only that this opened to the southeast, 
and hailed the morning sun as that had taken in its set- 
ting, — “Auntie, will you go over with me to the Cross 
Corners house, after breakfast? It ’s empty, isn’t it? ” 

“ Yes, it’s empty. But it’s no great show of a house. 
What do you want to see it for? ” 

“ Why, it used to be so pretty, there. I ’d like just to 
go into it Have you heard of anybody wanting it yet ? ” 

“ No ; and I guess nobody ’s likely to, for one while. 
Folks don’t make many changes, out here.” 

“What a bright little breakfast- room this is, auntie! 
And how grand you are to have a room for every meal 1 ” 

“It aint for the grandeur of it. But I always did like 
to follow the sun round. For the most part of the year, at 
any rate. And this is just as near the kitchen as the other. 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD.. 101 


Besides, I kind of hate to shut up any of the rooms, alto- 
gether. They were all wanted, once ; and now I ’m all 
alone in ’em.” 

For Miss Henderson, this was a great opening of the 
heart. But she did n’t go on to say that the little west room 
had been her young brother’s, who long ago, when he was 
just ready for his Master’s work in this world, had been 
called up higher ; and that her evening rest was sweeter, 
and her evening reading holier for being holden there ; or 
that here, in the sunny morning hours, her life seemed 
almost to roll back its load of many years, and to set her 
down beside her mother’s knee, and beneath her mother’s 
gentle tutelage, once more ; that on the little “ light- stand ” 
in the comer by the fireplace stood the self-same basket that 
had been her mother’s then, — just where she had kept it, 
too, when it was running over with little frocks and stock- 
ings that were always waiting finishing or mending, — and 
now held only the plain gray knitting- work and the bit of 
sewing that Aunt Faith might have in hand. 

A small, square table stood now in the middle of the floor, 
with a fresh brown linen breakfast-cloth upon it ; and Glory, 
neat and fresh, also, with her brown spotted calico dress 
and apron of the same, came in smiling like a very goddess 
of peace and plenty, with the steaming cofiee-pot in one 
hand, and the plate of fine, white rolls in the other. The 
yellow print of butter and some rounds from a brown loaf 
were already on the table. Glory brought in, presently, 
the last addition to the meal, — six eggs, laid yesterday, 
the water of their boiling just dried off, and modestly took 
her own seat at the lower end of the board. 

Aunt Faith, living alone, kept to the kindly old country- 
fashion of admitting her handmaid to the table with herself. 

9 * 


102 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLOOD. 


“Why not?” she would say. “In the first place, why 
should we keep the table about, half an hour longer than 
we need ? And I suppose hot cakes and coffee are as much 
nicer than cold, for one body as another. Then where ’a 
the senje ? We take Bible-meat together. Must we be 
more dainty about ‘ meat that perisheth ? ’ ” So her argu- 
ment climbed up from its lower reason to its climax. 

Glory had little of the Irish now about her but her name. 
And all that she retained visibly of the Koman faith she 
had been born to, was her little rosary of colored shells, 
strung as beads, that had been blessed by the Pope. 

Miss Henderson had trained and fed her in her own ways, 
and with such food as she partook herself, physically and 
spiritually. Glory sat, every Sunday, in the corner pew of* 
the village church, by her mistress’s side. And this church- 
going being nearly all that she had ever had, she took in 
the nutriment that was given her, to a soul that recognized 
it, and never troubled itself with questions as to one truth 
differing from another, or no. Indeed, no single form or 
theory could have contained the “credo” of her simple, yet 
complex, thought. The old Catholic reverence clung about 
her still, that had come with her all the way from her infancy^ 
when her mother and grandmother had taught her the pray^ 
ers of their Church ; and across the long interval of igno- 
rance and neglect flung a sort of cathedral light over wha^ 
she felt was holy now. 

Eescued fro-m her dim and servile city life, — brought out'' 
into the light and beauty she had mutely longed for, — feel- 
ing care and kindliness about her for the long-time harshness 
and oppression she had borne, — she was like a spirit newly 
entered into heaven, that needs no priestly ministration any 
more. Every breath drew in a life and teaching purer than 
human words. 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 103 


And then the words she did hear were Divine. Miss 
Henderson did no preaching, — scarcely any lip-teaching, 
however brief. She broke the bread of life God gave her, 
as she cut her daily loaf and shared it, — letting each soul, 
God helping, digest it for itself. 

Glory got hold of some old theology, too, that sffe could 
but fragmentarily understand ; but that mingled itself, — 
as all we gather does mingle, not uselessly, — with her 
growth. She found old books among Miss Henderson’s 
stores, that she read and mused on. She trembled at the 
warnings, and reposed in the holy comforts of Doddridge’s 
“ Eise and Progress,” and Baxter’s “ Saint’s Eest.” She 
travelled to the Holy City, above all, with Bunyan’s Pil- 
grim. And then, Sunday after Sunday, she heard the 
simple Christian preaching of an old and simple Christian 
man. Not terrible, — but earnest; not mystical, — but 
high ; not lax, — but liberal ; and this fused and tempered 
all. 

So “ things had happened ” for Glory. So God had cared 
for this, his child. So, according to His own Will, — not 
any human plan or forcing, — she grew. 

Aunt Faith washed up the breakfast cups, dusted and 
“ set to rights ” in the rooms where, to the young Faith’s 
eyes, there seemed such order already as could not be righted, 
made up a nice little pudding for dinner, and then, taking 
down her shawl and silk hood, and putting on her overshoes, 
announced herself ready for Cross Corners. 

“ Though it ’s all cross corners to me, child, sure enough. 
I suppose it ’s none of my business, but I can’t think what 
you ’re up to.” 

“Not up to any great height, yet, auntie. But I’m 
growing,” said Faith, merrily, and with meaning somewhot 
beyond. the letter. 


104 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 

They went out at the back door, which opened on a little 
foot-path down the sudden green slope behind, and stretched 
across the field, diagonally, to a bar-place and stile at the 
opposite corner. Here the roads from five different direc- 
tions met and crossed, which gave the locality its name. 

Opposite the stile at which they came out, across the shady 
lane that wound down from the Old Eoad whereon Miss 
Henderson’s mansion faced, a gateway in a white paling 
that ran round and fenced in a grassy door-yard, overhung 
with pendent branches of elms and stouter canopy of chest- 
nuts, let them in upon the little “ Cross Comers Farm.” 

The house stood but a few paces back, the long, sweep- 
ing tips of the elm-boughs kissing its roof ; and behind it 
swelled a ridge of land so wooded over with miscellaneous 
growth of tree and shrub, that it was like the entrance to a 
forest. The uprising of the ground filled in with its dark 
coloring, and gave an effect of density, beside cutting off all 
view between or beyond the Irees ; so that, although a few 
moments’ walk would carry one over and through it all into 
the cleared and cultivated fields beyond, the illusion was 
utter, and very charming. » 

Faith felt it so, even in this early spring-time, before the 
grass was fully green, or the branches draped in all their 
Summer breadth and beauty. 

“Oh, Aunt Faith! It ’s' just as lovely as ever! Ire- 
member that path up the hill, among the trees, so well ! 
When I was a little bit of a girl, and nurse and I came out 
to stay with you. I had my “fairy house” there. I’d 
like to go over this minute, only that we shan’t have time. 
How shall we get in ? Where is the key ? 

“ It ’s in my pocket. But it mystifies me, what you want 
there.” 


FAITH GAETNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 105 

I want to look out of all the windows, auntie, to begin 
with.” 

Aunt Faith’s mystification was not lessened. 

The front door opened on a small, square hall, with doors 
to right and left. Opposite, went up the narrow staircase. 
Narrow, and steep, but straight j lighted by a window from 
the landing at its head ; and railed at either side above, to 
give passage to the chambers at the front. 

The room on the left, spite of the bare floor and fireless 
hearth, was warm with the spring sunshine that came pour- 
ing in at the south windows. Beyond this, embracing the 
comer of the house rectangularly, projected an equally 
sunny and cheery kitchen ; at the right of which, commu- 
nicating with both apartments, was divided off a tiny tea 
and-breakfast-room. So Faith mentally decided it, though 
it had very likely been a bedroom. This looked northerly, 
however, and would seem pleasanter, doubtless, in July ; 
though the high ridge that trended north and easterly be- 
hind, sheltered the whole house in comparative comfort, 
even from December gales. 

From the entrance hall at the right opened a room larger 
than either of the others, — so large that the floor above 
afforded two bedrooms over it, — and having, beside its 
windows south and cast, a door in the farther corner beyond 
the chimney, that gave out directly upon the grassy slope, 
and looked up the path among the trefes that crossed the 
ridge. 

Faith drew the bolt and opened it, expecting to find a 
closet or a passage somewhither. She fairly started back 
with surprise and delight. ' And then seated herself plump 
upon the threshold, with her feet on the fiat flag- stone before 
it, and went into a midsummer dream. 


106 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


“ Oh, auntie ! ” she cried, at her waking, presently, “ was 
ever anything so perfect ? To think of being let out so 1 
Eight from a regular, proper parlor, into the woods ! ” 

“ Do you mean to go up stairs? ” inquired Miss Hender- 
son, with a vague amaze in her look that seemed to question 
whether her niece had not possibly been “ let out ” from her 
regular and proper ” wits I 

Whereupon Faith scrambled up from her seat upon the 
eill, and hurried off to investigate and explore above. 

Miss Henderson closed the door, pushed the bolt, and 
followed quietly after. 

It was a funny little pantomime that Faith enacted then, 
for the further bewilderment of the staid old lady. 

Darting from one chamber to another, with an inexpli- 
cable look of business and consideration in her face, that 
contrasted comically with her quick movements and her 
general air of glee, she would take her stand in the middle 
of each one in turn, and wheeling round to get a swift 
panoramic view of outlook and capabilities, would end by a 
succession of mysterious and apparently satisfied little nods, 
as if at each pause some point of plan or arrangement had 
settled itself in her mind. 

“Aunt Faith!” cried she, suddenly, as she came out 
upon the landing when she had peeped into the last corner, 
and found Miss Henderson on the point of making her 
descent, — “ what slrt of a thing do you think it would be 
for us to come here and live ? ” 

Aunt Faith sat down now as suddenly, in her turn, on 
the stair-head. Eecovering, so, from her momentary and 
utter astonishment, and taking in, .d^ii'i^g that instant of 
repose, the full drift of the question propounded, she rose 
from her involuntarily assumed position, and continued her 


FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD, 107 


way down, — answering, without so much as turning her 
head, — “It would he just the most sensible thing that 
Henderson Gartney ever did in his life I ’’ 

What made Faithie a bit sober, all at once, when the 
key was turned, and they passed on, out under the elms, 
into the lane again ? 

Did you ever project a very wise ^d important scheme, 
that involved a little self-sacrifice, which, by a determined 
looking at the bright side of the subject, you had managed 
tolerably to ignore ; and then, by the instant and unhesi- 
tating acquiescence of some one to whose judgment you 
submitted it, find yourself suddenly wheeled about in your 
own mind to the stand-point whence you discerned only the 
difficulty again 

“ There ’s one thing. Aunt Faith,” said she, as they 
slowly walked up the field-path; “I couldn’t go to school 
any more.” 

Faith had discontinued her regular attendance since the 
recommencement for the year, but had gone in for a few 
hours on “ French and German days.” 

“There’s another thing,” said Aunt Faith. “I don’t 
believe your father can afford to send you any more. You ’re 
eighteen, aint you? ” 

“ I shall be, this summer.” 

“ Time for you to leave off school Bring your books 
and things along with you. You ’ll have chance enough to 
study.” 

Faith had n’t thought much of herself before. But when 
she found her aunt did n’t apparently think of her at all, 
she began J:o realize keenly all that she must silently give 
up. 

“But it’s a good deal of help, auntie, to study with 


108 FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD, 


otter people. And tten — we should n’t have ' any society 
out here. I don’t mean for tke sake of parties, and going 
about. But for the improvement of it. I should n’t like 
to be shut out from cultivated people.” 

“ Faith Gartney ! ” exclaimed Miss Henderson, facing 
about in the narrow footway, “don’t you go to being fine 
and transcendental ! .-If there’s one word I despise more 
than another, in the way folks use it now-a-days, — it s 
* Culture ! ’ As if God did n’t know how to make souls 
grow ! You just take root where He puts you, and go to 
work, and live! He’ll take care of the cultivating! If 
He means you to turn out a rose, or an oak-tree, you ’ll 
come to it. And pig- weed ’s pig- weed, no matter where it 
starts up ! ” 

“ Aunt Faith ! ” replied the ^hild, humbly and earnestly, 
“ I believe that ’s true ! And I believe I want the country 
to grow in! But the thing will be,” she added, a little 
doubtfully, “to persuade father.” 

“ Don’t he want to come, then ? Whose plan is it, pray ? ” 
asked Miss Henderson, stopping short again, just as she had 
resumed her walk, in a fresh surprise. 

Nobody’s but mine, yet, auntie ! I have n’t asked him, 
but I thought I ’d come and look.” 

Miss Henderson took her by the arm, and looked stead- 
fastly in her dark, earnest eyes. 

“You’re something, sure enough!” said she, with a 
sharp tenderness. 

Faith did n’t know precis^y what she meant, except that 
she seemed to mean approval. And at the one word of 
appreciation, all difficulty and self-sacrifice vanished out of 
her sight, and everything brightened to her thought, again, 
till her thought brightened out into a smile. 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 109 


What a sky-full of lovely white clouds ! ” she said, 
looking up to the pure, fleecy folds that were flitting over 
the blue. “We can’t see that in Mishaumok ! ” 

“ She’s just heavenly!” said Glory to herself, standing 
at the back door, and gazing with a rapturous admiration 
at Faith’s upturned faoe. “And the dinner’s all ready, 
and I ’m thankful, and more, that the custard ’s baked so 
beautiful 1 ” 

10 


<¥ ■' - 



CHAPTER XIIL 


DEVELOPMENT, 



“ Sits the wind in that corner ? ” 

Much Ado About Nothing, 


** For courage mounteth with occasion.” 

King John. 


The lassitude that comes with spring had told upon Mr. 
Gartney. He had dyspepsia, too ; and now and then came 
home early from the counting-room with a headache that 
sent him to his hed. Dr. Gracie dropped in, friendly-wise, 
of an evening, — said little that was strictly professional, 
— hut held his hand a second longer, perhaps, than he 
wouhl have done for a mere greeting, and looked rather 
scrutinizingly at him when Mr. Gartney’ s eyes were turned 
another way. Prequently he made some slight suggestion 
of a journey, or other sj^mer change. 

“You must urge it/ if you can, Mrs. Gartney,” he said, 
privately, to the wife. “I donlf quite like his looks. Get 
him away from business, at almost any sacrifice,” he came 
to add, at last. 

“ At every sacrifice ? ” asked Mrs. Gartney, anxious and 
perplexed. “ Business is nearly all, you know.” 

. “Life is more, — reason is more,” answered the doctor, 
gravely. 



> 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. Ill 


And the wife went about her daily task with a secret 
heaviness at her heart. 

“ Father,” said Faith, one evening, after she had read to 
him the paper while he lay resting upon the sofa, “ if you 
had money enough to live on, how long would it take you 
to wind up your business ? ” 

“ It ’s pretty nearly wound up now ! But what ’s the 
use of asking such a question?” answered her father, 
turning his head away, somewhat fretfully. 

“ Because,” said Faith, timidly, “ I ’ve got a little plan 
in my head, if you ’ll only listen to it.” 

A pause. Faith hardly knew whether to venture on, or 
not. 

Presently the head came round again, and the eyes met 
hers, with a look that was a little surprised, yet wistful 
and kindly, also. 

“ Well, Faithie, I ’ll listen. What is it ? ” 

And then Faith spoke it all out, at once. 

“ That, you should give up all your business, father, and 
let this house, and go to Cross Corners, and live at the 
farm.” 

Mr. Gartney started to his elbow. But a sudden pain 
that leaped in his temples sent him back again. For a 
minute or so, he did not speak at all. Then he said, — 

“ Do you know what you are talking of, daughter ? ” 

“ Yes, father ; I ’ve been thinking it over a good while, 
— since the night we wrote down these things.” 

And she drew from Tier pocket the memorandum of stocks 
and dividends. 

“ You see you have six hundred and fifty dollars a year 
from these, and this house would be six hundred more, and 
mother says she can manage on that, in the country, if I 
will help her.” 


112 FAITH GARTNFT^S GIRLHOOD, 


A simple wording of a simple conclusion. But it told a 
great deal. 

Mr. Gartney shaded liis eyes with his hand. Not wholly, 
perhaps, to shield them from the light. 

“ You ’re a good girl, Baithie,” said he, presently ; and 
there was assuredly a little tremble in his voice. 

“ And so, you and your mother have talked it over, to- 
gether ? ” 

“ Yes ; often, lately. * And she said I had' better ask you 
myself, if I wished it. She is perfectly willing. She thinks 
it would be good.” 

“Baithie,” said her father, “you make me feel, more 
than ever, how much I ought to do for you ! ” 

“You ought to get well and strong, father, — that is 
all!” replied Baith, with a quiver in her own voice, this 
time. 

Mr. Gartney sighed. 

“ I ’m no more than a mere useless block of wood ! ” said 
he, despondingly. 

“We shall j.ust have to set you up, and nlake an idol of 
you, then 1 ” cried Baith, cheerily, with tears on her eye- 
lashes, that she winked off, and forbade to be followed. 

There had been a ring at the bell while they were 
speaking ; and now Mrs. Gartney entered, followed by Dr. 
Grade. 

“ Well, Miss Baith,” said the doctor, after the usual 
greetings, and a prolonged look at Mr. Gartney’s flushed 
face, and an injunction to him, as he was rising, to keep 
quiet, — “ what have you done to your father, to-night ? ” 

“ I’ve been reading the paper,” answered Baith, quietly, 
“ and talking a little.” 

“ Mother 1 ” said Mr. Gartney, catching his wife’s hand, 


FAITH GABTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 113 


as she came round to find a seat near him, “ are you really 
in the plot, too ? ” 

'‘I’m glad there is a plot,” said the doctor, quickly, 
glancing round with a keen inquiry. “ It ’s time ! ” 

“ Wait till you hear it,” said Mr. Gartney. “ Are you 
in a hurry to lose your patient ? ” 

“ Depends upon how ! ” replied the doctor, touching the 
truth in a jest. 

“ This is how. Here ’s a little jade who has the conceit 
and audacity to propose to me to wind up my business, (as if 
she understood the whole process !) and let my house, and go 
to my farm at Cross Comers. What do you think of that ? ” 

“ I think it would be the most sensible thing you ever 
did in your life ! ” 

“ Just exactly what Aunt Henderson said ! cried Faith, 
exultant. 

“Aunt Faith, too! The conspiracy thickens! How 
long has all this been discussing ? ” continued Mr. Gart- 
ney, fairly roused, and springing, despite the doctor’s re- 
quest, to a sitting position, throwing off, as he did so, the 
Affghan Faith had laid over his feet. 

“ There has n’t been much discussion,” said Faith. 
“ Only when I went out to Kinnicutt I got auntie to show 
me the house ; and I asked her how she thought it would 
be if we were to do such a thing, and she said just what 
Dr. Gracie has said now. And, father,” — she continued, 
— “ you don't know how beautiful it is there ! ” 

“ So you really want to go ? and it is n’t drumsticks ? ” 
queried the doctor, turning round to Faith. 

“ Some drumsticks are very nice,” said Faith. 

“ Gartney ! ” said Dr. Gracie, “ you ’d better mind what 
this girl of yours says. She ’s worth attending tb,” 

10 * 


114 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


The wedge had been entered, and Faith’s hand had 
driven it. 

The plan was taken into consideration. Of course, such*^ 
a change could not he made without some pondering ; but 
when almost the continual thought of a family is concen- 
trated upon a single subject, a good deal of pondering and 
deciding can be done in three weeks. At the end of that 
time an advertisement appeared in the leading Mishaumok 
papers, offering the house in Hickory Street to be let ; and 
Mrs. Gartney and Faith were busy packing boxes to go to 
Xinnicutt. 

Only a passing shade had been flung on the project which 
seemed to brighten into sunshine, otherwise, the more they 
looked at it, when Mrs. Gartney suddenly said, after a long 

talking over,” the second evening after the proposal had 
been first broached, — 

“ But what will Saidie say ? ” 

Now Saidie, — whom before it has been unnecessary to 
mention, — was Faith’s elder sister, travelling at this 
moment in Europe, with a wealthy elder sister of Mrs, 
Gartney. 

“ I never thought of Saidie,” cried Faith. 

Saidie was pretty sure not to like Kinnicutt. A young 
lady, educated at a fashionable New York school, — petted 
by an aunt who found nobody else to pet, and who had 
money enough to have petted a whole asylum of orphans, — ^ 
who had shone in London and Paris for two seasons past, 

— was not exceedingly likely to discover all the possible 
delights that Faith had done, under the elms and chestnuts 
at Cross Comers. 

But, a^er all, this could make no practical difference. 

“She wouldn’t like Hickory Street any better,” said 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 115 


Faith, “ if we could n’t have parties or new furniture any- 
more. And she ’s only a visitor, at the best. Aunt Ether- 
ege will be sure to have her in New York, or travelling 
about, ten months out of twelve. She can come to us in 
June and October. I guess she’ll like strawberries and 
cream, and — whatever comeS at the other season, besides 
red leaves.” 

Now this was kind, sisterly consideration of Faith, how- 
ever little so it seems, set down. It was very certain that 
no more acceptable provision could be made for Saidie 
Gartney in the family plan, than to leave her out, except 
where the strawberries and cream were concerned. In re- 
turn, she wrote gay, entertaining letters home to her mother 
and young sister, and sent pretty French, or Florentine, or 
Eoman ornaments for them to wear. Some persons are con- 
tent to go through life with such exchange of sympathies 
as this. 

By-and-by, Faith being in her own room, took out from 
her letter-box the last missive from abroad. There was 
something in this which vexed Faith, and yet stirred her a 
little, obscurely, aside from the mere vexation. 

All things are fair in love, war, and — story-books ! So, 
though she would never have shown the words to you or 
me, we will peep over her shoulder, and share them, “ m 
rapportT 

“ And Paul Eushleigh, it seems, is as much as ever in 
Hickory Street! Well — my little Faithie might make a 
far worse ^ parti ’ than that ! Tell papa I think he may be 
satisfied there I ” 

Faith would have cut off her little finger, rather than 
have had her father dream that such a thing had been put 
into lier head ! But unfortunately it was there, now, and 


116 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


could not "be helped, ^e could only, — sitting there in 
her chamber window with the blood tingling to the hair 
upon her temples, as if from every neighboring window of 
the clustering houses about her, eyes could overlook and 
read what she was reading now, — “ wish that Saidie would 
not write such things as thaW ” And then wonder how she 
or her mother could possibly have said so much about their, 
young visitor as to have brought so unreserved a deduction 
upon her from across the Atlantic. 

For all that, it was one pleasant thing Faith would have 
to lose in leaving Mishaumok. It was very agreeable to 
have him dropping in, with his gay college gossip ; and to 
dance the “ German” with the nicest partner in the Mon- 
day class ; and to carry the. flowers he so often sent her. 
Had she done things greater than she knew in shutting her 
eyes resolutely to all her city associations and enjoyments, 
and urging, for her father’s sake, this exodus into the 
desert ? 

Only that means were actually wanting to continue on 
as they were, and that health must at any rate be flrst 
striven for as a condition to the future enlargement of 
means, her father and mother, in their thought for what 
their child hardly considered for herself, would surely have 
been more difficult to persuade. They hoped that a sum- 
mer’s rest might enable Mr. Gartney to undertake again 
some sort of lucrative business, after business should have 
revived from its present prostration ; and that a year or 
two, perhaps, of economizing in the country, might make it 
possible for them to return, if they chose, to the house in 
Hickory Street. 

There were leave-takings to be gone through, — questions 
to be answered, and reasons to be given ; for Mrs. G^tney, 


FAITH GAHTNEY'S GIRLHOOD. 117 


tlie polite wishes of her visiting friends that “ Mr. Gartney’s 
health might allow them to return to the city in the win- 
ter,” with the wonder, unexpressed, whether this were to^ 
he a final hreak-down of the family, or not ; and for Faith, 
the horror and extravagant lamentations of her young cote- 
rie, at her coming occultation — ^ setting, rather, out of 
their sky. 

Paul Eushleigh demanded eagerly if there were n’t any 
sober old minister out there, with whom he might be rusti- 
cated for his next college prank, which he would contrm 
with nice adaptation for the express purpose. 

Everybody promised to come as far as Kinnicutt ** some, 
time ” to see them ; the good-byes were all said at last; the 
city cook had departed, and a woman had been taken in 
her place who “ had no objections to the country;” and on 
one of the last bright days of May they skimmed, steam- 
sped, over the intervening country between the brick-and- 
stone-encrusted hills of Mishaumok and the fair meadow 
reaches of Kinnicutt ; and so disappeared out of ^ places 
that had known them so long, and could yet, alas ! do so 
exceedingly well without them. 

By the first of June nobody in the great city remembered, 
or remembered very seriously to regard, the little gap that 
had been made in its midst. 

Do the cloven waters stand a-gape for the little dipper- 
full of drops that may be drawn out from among them? 


CHAPTEE XIV. 


A DRIVE WITH THE DOCTOR. 


“And what is so rare as a day in June ? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 

Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 

And over it softly her warm ear lays.” 

Lowell. 

“ All lives have their prose translation as well as their ideal meaning.** 

Charles Auchester, 

But Kinnicutt opened wider to receive tliem tlian MisE- 
aumok had to let them go. 

If W. Gartney’s invalidism had to he pleaded to get 
away with dignity, it was even more needed to shield with 
anything of quietness their entrance into the new sphere 
they had chosen. 

It is astonishing how wide the circuit of neighborhood is 
in and around a centre of bucolic life. The embrace widens 
with the horizon. Where brick walls shut away the vision, 
the thickness of a brick shuts out all knowledge. But with 
the sweep of the far hills, and the up-arching blue, comes 
a human relationship that takes in all the hills include — 
all that the blue looks down upon. It is everybody’s busi- 
ness to find out everybody, and to know just how everybody 
is “ getting along.” , 

“ Faith, with her young adaptability, found great fund 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 119 


«ft ^tertainment in the new social developments that un- 
forTed themselves at Cross. Corners. 

All sorts of quaint vehicfts drove up under the elms in 
the afternoon visiting hours, day after day, — hitched horses, 
and unladed passengers. Both doctors and their wives 
came promptly, of course; the “ old doctor” from the vil- 
lage, and tihe “young doctor” from “over at Lakeside.” 
Quiet Mrs. Holland walked in at the twilight, by herself, 
one day, to explain that her husband, the minister, was too 
unwell to visit, and to say her pleasant, unpretentious words 
of welcome. Squire Leatherbee’s daughters made them- 
selves fine in lilac silks and green Estella shawls, to offer 
acquaintance to the new “ city people.” Aunt Faith came 
over, once or twice a week, at times when “nobody else 
would be round under foot,” and always with some dainty 
offering from dairy, garden, or kitchen. At other hours. 
Glory was fain to seize all opportunity of «rrands that Miss 
Henderson could not do, and irradiate the kitchen^ linger- 
ingly, until she herself might be more ecstatically irradiated 
with a glance and smile from Miss Faith, who found and 
came to understand that whatever might chance to bring 
her over, her aunt’s handmaid would never willingly depart 
without a return message, or an inquiry whether “there was 
any message to send, if she pleased?” It was never “ any 
matter about the basket,” and — “oh, dear! she didn’t wait 
to be thanked, no more would Miss Henderson ; ” but what 
she did waif for hardly appeared, save as a quick kindliness 
might divine it, seeing that she had no sooner got her thanks 
and her basket from Faith’s own hand and lip, than she was 
off, shy and happ^ and glorified up to the topmost wave of 
her golden locks. 

There was need enough of Aunt Faith’s ministrations 


120 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


during these first, few, unsettled weehs. The young woman 
who “had no objections to the country,” objected no more 
to these pleasant country fashions of neighborly kindness. 
She had reason. Aunt Faith’s “thirds bread,” or crisp 
“vanity cakes,” or “velvet creams,” were no sooner dis- 
posed of than there surely came a starvation interval of 
sour biscuits, heavy gingerbread, and tough pie-crust, and 
dinners feebly cooked, with no attemptvat desserts, at all. 

This was gloomy. This was the first trial of their country 
life. Plainly, this cook was no cook, neither could she 
easily be replaced with a better. Mr. Gartney’s dyspepsia 
must be considered. Kinnicutt air and June sunshine 
would not do all the curative work. The healthy appetite 
they stimulated must be wholesomely supplied. 

Faith took to the kitchen. To Glory’s mute and rap- 
turous delight, she began to come almost daily up the field- 
path, in her pretty round hat and -morning wrapper, to 
waylay her aunt in the tidy kitchen at the early hour when 
her cookery was sure to be going on, to ask questions and 
investigate, and “ help a little,” and then to go home and 
repeat the operation as nearly as she could for their some- 
what later dinner. 

“ Miss McGonegal seems to be improving,” observed Mr. 
Gartney, complacently, one day, as he partook of a simple, 
but favorite pudding, nicely flavored and compounded; 
“ or is this a charity of Aunt Henderson’s? ” 

“No,” replied his wife, “it is home-manufacture,” — 
and she glanced at Faith without dropping her tone to a 
period. Faith shook her head, andHhe sentence hung in 
the air, unfinished. ^ 

Mrs. Gartney had not been strong, for years. Moreover, 
she had not a genius for cooking. That is a real gift, as 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 121 


much as a genius for poetry or painting. Faith was finding 
out, suddenly, that she had it. But she was (][uite willing 
that her father should rest in the satisfactory belief that 
Miss McGfhnegal, in whom it never, by any possibility, 
could be developed, was improving; and that the good 
things that found their way to his table had a paid and per- 
manent origin. He was more comfortable so, she thought. 
Meanwhile, they would inquire if the region round about 
Kinnicutt might be expected to afford a substitute. 

Dr. Wasgatt’s wife told Mrs. Gartney of a young Amer- 
ican woman who was staying in the “factory village” be- 
yond Lakeside, and who had asked her husband if he knew 
of any place where she could “ hire out.” Doctor Wasgatt 
would be very glad to take her or Miss Faith over there, of 
a morning, to see if she would answer. 

Faith was very glad to go. 

Doctor Wasgatt was the “old doctor.” A benign man, 
as old doctors, — when they don’t grow contrariwise, and 
become unspeakably gruff and crusty, — are apt to be. |A 
benign old doctor, a docile old horse, an old-fashioned two- 
wheeled chaise that springs to the motion like a bough at a 
bird-flitting, and an indescribable June morning wherein to 
drive four miles and back, — well! Faith couldn’t help 
exulting in her heart that they wanted a cook. 

It took them a long while to accomplish the four miles, 
though. It was lucky the first dish of strawberries was 
ready in the ice, for dinner, and that the roast lamb of yes- 
terday was to . be eaten cold to-day, and that Mah^^ had 
promised to see that Horah did n’t overboil the peas. ^ 

was free, so, to enjoy to the full all the enchantment an^-^-**^ 
novelty of her drive, and not to care a bit if she should n’t 

get home till sunset. 

11 ' V 


122 FAITH GAHTNET'S GIRLHOOD. 


Doctor Wasgatt had half-a-dozen patients to gee between 
Cross Corners and the factory village. Half-a-dozen, that 
is, that he had known of, and set out with intent to see ; 
and half-a-dozen more, or thereabouts, to whom he was 
summoned by waylayment. A woman standing at the 
window of one house upon the road,/ holding a pillow by 
the end between her teeth, and preparing to shake it into 
its case,) spied his chaise with the eye she had kept outward 
for the purpose all the morning, and, dropping her (extraor- 
dinary mouthfulj)as the raven did who sang, of old, to the 
fox, hailed him with outstretched head and sudden cry. 
And then, with the overzeal some women have who never 
know when a thing is accomplished, she distrusted the force 
of a single shot across his bows, and seeing that he appeared 
about to pass the gate, — which was really that he might 
only place his horse and his companion under the shade of 
the butternuts beyond, — leaned half her person from the 
window and fluttered the pillow-case at arm’s length at 
him, as a signal to lay to. Which, at the moment, he did ; 
leaving Faith, not unwilling, under the flickering shade of 
the tall trees ; breathing in, with all June balms whereof 
the air was full, the spicy smell of a chip-yard round the 
corner, where the scraps of pine lay fervid and fragrant 
under the summer sun. 

There was neither sight, nor soimd, nor odor, this perfect 
day, but seemed an addition of delight. People were pic- 
turesque, even though they held feather-pillows between 
their teeth, and screamed frantically from chamber windows. 
The joyous and bounteous air found no utterance so discord- 
ant that it could not take into its clear, mellow sweep, and 
soften into harmony. The crow that flew over the young 
cornfields, — the farmer hallooing to his cattle, — the, creak 


FAITH GARTNEY’S GIRLHOOD. 123 


of wagons, — all, as really as the bird- twitterings that 
rained, pure musical, from every bough, — made lip a sum- 
mer melody together. Faith could n’t be left suddenly any- 
where, to wait while Doctor Wasgatt dispensed pills, and 
drops, and powders, where it was n’t an ecstasy to be. 

At another farm-house dooryard, an urchin had had an 
hour’s swing on the otherwise forbidden gate, that he might, 
by that means, be at hand to “ stop the doctor.” It is 
greatly to be feared that “ grandma’ am’s bad night ” had 
hardly been deplored with a due sympathy, meanwhile. 

There were scarcely any other patients, in truth, to-day, 
among them all, than the old, who were “ kinder pulled 
down by the warm spell,” or babies, who must cut teeth, 
and consequently worry, though the earth they had scarcely 
looked upon was rioting in all this growing joy, cutting, 
painless, quick, green blades of life everywhere, and so 
smiling but the more widely ; and two or three consump- 
tive invalids, who must soon shut their weary eyes upon 
the summer, let her lavish herself gloriously as she might. 
What others, truly, could be ill in June ? 

The way was very lovely toward Lakeside, and across to 
Factory Village. It crossed the capricious windings of 
Wachaug two or three times within the distance, and then 
bore round the Pond Eoad, which kept its old traditional 
cognomen, though the new neighborhood that had grown 
up at its farther bend had got a modern name, and the 
beautiful pond itself had come to be known with a legiti- 
mate dignity as Lake Wachaug. 

Graceful birches, with a spring, and a joyous, whispered ^ 
secret in every glossy leaf, leaned over the road toward the 
water ; and close down to its ripples grew wild shrubs and 
flowers, and lush grass, and lady-bracken, while out over 


124 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


the still depths rested green lily-pads, like floating thrones 
waiting the fair water-queens who, a few weeks hence, 
should rise to- claim them. Back, Behind the birches, 
reached the fringe of woodland that melted away, pres- 
ently, in the sunny pastures, and held in bush and branch 
hundreds of little mother-birds, brooding in a still rapture, 
like separate embodied pulses of the Universal Love, over 
a coming life and joy. 

Life and joy were everywhere. A thrill came up from 
the warm earth, where insect and root were stirring at its 
every pore, and the whole air was tremulous with a gentle 
breath and motion. The sunlight danced and shimmered 
downward through the sky, as with the very overcharge of 
vitality it came to bring. Laith’s heart danced and glowed 
within her. She had thought, many a time before, that* 
she was getting somewhat of the joy of the country, wlien, 
after dinner and business were over, she had come out from 
Mishaumok, in proper fashionable toilette, with her father 
and mother, for an afternoon airing in the city environs. 
But here, in the old doctor’s “ one-hoss shay,” and with 
her round straw hat and chintz wrapper on, she was finding 
out what a rapturously different thing it is to go out into 
the bountiful morning, and identify one’s-self therewith. 

She had almost forgotten that she had any other errand 
when they turned away from the lake, and took a little 
side road that wound off from it, and struck the river again, 
and brought theij at last to the Wachaug Mills and the 
little factory settlement around them. 

“ This is Mrs. Franker’ s,” said the doctor, stopping at 
the thii'3 doer in a block of factory houses, “and it’s a 
sister-in-law of hers \^ho wants to ‘ hire out.’ I ’ve a pa- 
tient in the next row, and if you like, I ’ll leave you here 
a few minutes.” 


FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD, 125 


Faith^s foot was instantly on tlie chaise-step, and she 
sprang t« the ground with only an acknowledging touch of 
the good doctor’s hand, upheld to aid her. 

A white-haired hoy of three, making gravel puddings in 
a scolloped tin dish at the door, scrambled up as she ap- 
proached, upset his pudding, and sidled up the steps in a 
scared fashion, with a finger in his mouth, and his round 
gray eyes sending apprehensive peeps at her through the 
linty locks. 

** Well, tow-head ! ” ejaculated an energetic female voice 
within, to an accompaniment of swashing water, and a 
scrape of a bucket along the floor ; “ what ’s wanting now ? 
Can’t you stay put, nohow ? ” 

An unintelligible jargon of baby chatter followed, which 
seemed, however, to have conveyed an idea to the mother’s 
mind, for she appeared immediately in the passage, drying 
her wet arms upon her apron. 

“ Mrs. Franker ? ” asked Faith. 

“ That ’s my name,” replied the woman, as who should 
say, peremptorily, “what then?” 

“ I was told — my mother heard — that a sister of yours 
was looking for a place.” 

“ She haint done much about loohirC''* was the reply, “ but 
she was sayin’ she did n’t know but what she ’d hire out for 
a spell, if anybody wanted her. She ’s in the keepin’-room. 
You can come in and speak to her, if you ’re a mind to. 
The kitchen floor ’s wet. I ’m jest a washin’ of it. — You 
little sperrit ! ” This to the child, who was amusing him- 
self with the floor-cloth which he had fished out of the 
bucket, and held up, dripping, letting a stream of dirty 
water run down the front of his red calico frock. “If 
children aint the biggest torments ! Talk about Job ! His 
11 * 


126 FAITH GAETHFT’S GIRLHOOD. 


■wife had to have more patience than he did, I ’ll he bound I 
And patience aint any use, either ! I'he more you have, 
the more you ’re took advantage of ! I declare and testify, 
it makes me as cross as sin, jest to think how good-natured 
I be ! ” And with this, she snatched the cloth from the 
boy’s hands, shook first him and then his frock, to get 
rid, in so far as a shake might accomplish it, of original 
depravity and sandy soapsuds, and carried him, vociferant, 
to the door, where she set him down to the consolation of 
gravel-pudding again. 

Meanwhile Faith crossed the sloppy kitchen, on tiptoe, 
toward an open door, that revealed a room within. 

Here a very fat young woman, with a rather pleasant 
face, was seated, sewing, in a rocking-chair, her elbows 
resting on the arms thereof, and her work held up, so, be- 
fore her, while her feet, visible below the hem of her dress 
at a rather wide interval from each other, were keeping up, 
by a slight, regular rebound from the fioor, an easy motion 
that seemed not at all to interfere with her use of the 
needle. 

She did not rise, or move, at Faith’s entrance, otherwise 
than to look up, composedly, and let fall her arms along 
those of the chair, retaining the needle in one hand and 
her work in the other. 

“ I came to see,” said Faith, — obliged to say something 
to explain her presence, but secretly appalled at the mag- 
nitude of the subject she had to deal with, — “if you 
wanted a place in a family.” 

“ Take a seat,” said the young woman. 

Faith availed herself of one, and, doubtful precisely 
what to say next, waited for indications from the other 
party. 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 127 


“Well — I was calc’latin’ to hire out this summer, hut 
I aint very partic’ler about it, neither.” ' 

She made little scratches, indifferently, on the end of the 
chair-arm, with the point of her needle, as she spoke, and 
rubbed them out with the moist finger-tip from which she 
had slipped her thimble. 

“ Can you cook ? ” 

“ Most kinds. I can’t do much fancy cookin’. Guess I 
can make bread, — all sorts, — and roast, and bile, and 
see to common fixin’s, though, as well as the next one ! ” 

“We like plain country cooking,” said Faith, thinking 
of Aunt Henderson’s delicious, though simple, prepara- 
tions. “ And I suppose you can make new things if you 
have direction.” 

“Well — I’m pretty good at workin’ out a resate, too.. 
But then, I aint anyways partic’ler. ’bout hirin’ out, as I 
said afore.” 

Faith judged rightly that this was a salvo put in for 
pride. The Yankee girl would not appear anxious for a 
servile situation. All the while the conversation went , on, 
she sat tilting herself gently back and forth in the rocking- 
chair, with a lazy touching of her toes to the floor;’ Her 
very vis would not let her stop. 

Faith’s only question, now, was with herself, — how she 
should get away again. She had no idea that this huge, 
indolent creature would be at all suitable as their servant. 
And then, her utter want of manners ! 

“ I ’ll tell my mother what you say,” said she, rising. 
“ I only came to inquire.” 

“What’s your mother’s name, and where d’ye live?” 

“We live at Kinnicutt Cross Corners. My mother is 
Mrs. Henderson Gartney.” 

“’MI” 


128 FAITH GARTNEY'B GIRLHOOD. 


Faitli turned toward the kitchen. 

“ Look here ! ” called the stout young woman after her ; 
you may jest say if she wants me she can send for me. I 
don’t mind if I try it a spell.” 

“ I didn’t ask your name,” remarked Faith, pausing on 
the threshold and waiting for enlightenment. 

“ Oh ! my name ’s Mis’ Battis ! ” 

Faith escaped over the wet floor, sprang past the white- 
haired child at the door-step, and was just in time to he 
put into the chaise hy Doctor Wasgatt, who drove up as she 
came out. She did not dare trust her voice to speak within 
hearing of the house ; hut when they had come round the 
mills again, into the secluded river road, she startled its 
quietness and the doctor’s composure, with a laugh that 
rang out clear and overflowing like the very soul of fun. 

“ So that’s all you ’ve got out of your visit? ” asked the 
doctor, guessing easily at some ludicrous conjuncture. 

“Yes, that is all,” said Faith. “ But it ’s a great deal ! ” 
And she laughed again, — such a merry little waterfall of 
a laugh as chimed in wonderfully with all the hroad, bright 
cheer of the summer day, and made a fitting music there, 
between the woods and river. 

AVhen she reached home, Mrs. Gartney met her at the 
door. 

“Well, Faithic,” she cried, somewhat eagerly, “what have 
you found ? ” 

Faith’s eyes danced with merriment. 

“I don’t know, mother! A — hippopotamus, I think! ” 

“ Won’t she do? What do you mean? ” 

“ Why she ’s as big ! I can’t tell you how big ! And she 
sat in a rocking-chair and rocked all the time, — and she 
says her name is Miss Battis ! ” 


FAITH G ART NET GIRLHOOD. 129 


Mrs. Gartney looked ratlier perplexed than amused. 

“ But, Faith ! — I can’t think how she knew, — she must 
have been listening, — Norah has been so horribly angry ! 
And she’s up stairs packing her things to go right off. 
How can we be left without a cook ? ” 

“ It seems Miss McGonegal means to demonstrate that 
we can ! Perhaps — the hippopotamus might be trained to 
domestic service ! She said you could send if you wanted 
her. And she knows about plain country cooking.” 

“ I don’t see anything else to do. Norah won’t even stay 
till morning. And there is n’t a bit of bread in the house. 
I can’t send this afternoon, though, for your father has 
driven over to Sedgely about some celery and tomato plants, 
and won’t be home till tea-time.” 

“ I ’ll make some cream .biscuits like aunt Faith’s. And 
I ’ll go out into the garden and find Luther. If he can’t 
carry us through the Eeformation, somehow, he does n’t 
deserve his name.” 

Luther was found — thought Jerry Blanchard would n’t 
value lettin’ him have his old horse and shay for an hour.” 
and he would n’t “be mor ’n that goin’.” He could “ fetch 
her, easy enough, if that was all.” 

Mis’ Battis came. 

She entered Mrs. Gartney’ s presence with calm noncha- 
lance, and “fiumped” incontinently into the easiest and 
nearest chair. 

* Mrs. Gartney began with the common preliminary — the 
name. Mis’ Battis introduced herself as before. 

“ But your first name? ” proceeded the lady. 

“ My first name was Parthenia Pranker. I ’m a relic.” 

Mrs. Gartney experienced an internal convulsion, but 
retained her outward composure. 


130 FAITH GAETNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


** I suppose you would quite as lief be called Parthenia ? ** 
Euther,” replied tlie relict, laconically. 

And Mrs. Parthenia Battis was forthwith installed,— 
pro tern., — in the Cross Corners kitchen. 

“She’s got considerable gumption,” was the opinion 
Luther volunteered, of his . own previous knowledge, — for 
Mrs. Battis was an old schoolmate and neighbor, — “ but 
she’s powerful slow.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


NEW DUTIES. 

“ Wliatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.”— Eoo. 9: 10. 

A servant with this clause 
Makes drudgery divine ; — 

Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws, 

Makes that and the action fine.” 

George Herbert. 

Mis* Battis’s “gumption** was a relief, — conjoined, 
even, as it was, to a mighty inertia, — after the experience 
of Norah McGonegal’s utter incapacity ; and her admission, 
pro tempore, came to be tacitly looked upon as a permanent 
adoption, for want of a better alternative. She continued 
to seat herself, unabashed, whenever opportunity offered, in 
the presence of the family; and invariably did so, when 
Mrs. Gartney either sent for, or came to her, to give orders. 
Dishcloth, or rolling-pin, or bread-knife, or poker, or what- 
ever other utensil in hand, — down she would plump the 
instant active operations, if hers might ever be so denomi- 
nated, were suspended, by having her attention demanded 
otherwise. She always spoke of Mr. Gartney as “ he,’* ad- 
dressed her mistress as Miss Gartney, and ignored all prefix 
to the gentle name of Faith. The first of these habits was 
simply borne with, in consideration of inalienable laws. 


132 FAITH GAUTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


Heavy bodies have a right to gravitate ; and power of 
resistance can only be expected in inverse proportion to tbe 
force of attraction. For tbe matter of appellations, Mrs. 
Gartney at last remedied tbe pronominal difficulty by inva- 
riably applying all remarks bearing no other indication, 
to that other “he” of the household — Luther. Her own 
claim to the matronly title she gave up all hope of estab- 
lishing ; for if the “ relic’ ” abbreviated her own wifely dis- 
tinction, how should she be expected to dignify other 
people? 

As to Faith, her mother ventured one day, sensitively 
and timidly, to speak directly to the point. 

“ My daughter has always been accustomed to 1)0 called 
Miss Faith,” she said, gently, in reply to an observation of 
Parthenia’s, in which the ungarnished name had twice been 
used. “ It ij n’t a ver;^ important matter, — still, it would 
be pleasanter to us, and I dare say you won’t mind trying 
to remember it ? ” 

“ ’M ! ” Mis’ Battis’s invariable intonation in response 
to the suggestion of any new idea was somewhat prolonged. 
“No, — 1 aint partic’ler. Faith aint a long name, and 
’t won’t be much trouble to put a handle on, if that ’s what 
you want. It ’s English-fashion, aint it ? ” 

Parthenia’s coolness enabled Mrs. Gartney to assert some- 
what more confidently, her own dignity. 

“ It is a fashion of respect and courtesy, everywhere, I 
believe.” 

“ ’M ! ” re-ejaculated the relict. 

Thereafter, Faith was “ liliss,” with a slight pressure of 
emphasis upon the handle. 

“Mamma!” cried Hendie, impetuously, one day, as he 
rushed in from a walk with his attendant, “ I hate Mahala 


* FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 133 


Harris ! I wish yon ’d let me dress myself, and go to walk 
alone, and send her off to Jericho I ” 

“Whereabouts do you suppose Jericho to be?” asked 
Faith, laughing. 

“ I don’t know. It ’s where she keeps wishing I was, 
when she ’s cross, and I want anything. I wish she was 
there ! — and I mean to ask papa to send her ] ” 

“ Go and take your hat off, Hendie, and have your hair 
brushed, and your hands washed, and then come back in a 
nice quiet little temper, and we ’ll talk about it,” said Mrs. 
Gartney. 

“ I think,” said Faith to her mother, as the boy was 
heard mounting the stairs to the nursery, right foot fore- 
most all the way, “ that Mahala does n’t manage Hendie 
as she ought. Sho keeps him in a fret. I hear them in 
the morning while I am dressing. She seems to talk to 
him in a taunting sort of way ; and he gets so angry, some- 
times ! I ’m afraid she ’s spoiling his temper.” 

“What can we do?” exclaimed Mrs. Gartney, worriedly. 
“These changes are dreadful. We might get some one 
worse. And then we can’t afford to pay extravagantly., 
Mahala has been content tQ take less wages, and I think 
she means to be faithful. Perhaps if I make her under- 
stand how important it is,'§he will try a different manner.” 

“ Only it might be too late to do much good, if Hendie 
has really got to dislike her. And — besides — I ’ve been 
thinking, — only, you will say I ’m so full of projects — ” 
But what the project was, Mrs. Gartney did not hear at 
once, for just then Hendie’s voice was heard again at the 
head of the stairs. , 

“ I tell you, mother said I might ! I ’m going — down—' 
in a nice — little temper — to ask her — to send you — to 


134: FAITH GARTHEY'S GIRLHOOD. 

(^ericlio I ” Left, foot foremost, a drop between each few 
syllables, be came stumping, defiantly, down tbe stairs, and 
appeared with all bis eager story in bis eyes. 

“ Sbe plagues me, mamma! Sbe tells me to see wbo ’ll 
get dressed first ; and if she does, sbe says, — 

“ ‘ The first ’s the best, 

The second ’s the same ; 

■ The last ’s the worst 
Of all the game ! ’ 

And if I get dressed first, — all but tbe buttoning, you 
know, — sbe says, — 

‘ The last ’s the best. 

The second ’s the same j 
' The first ’s the worst 

Of all the game I ’ 

And then sbe keeps telling me that * ber little sister never 
behaved like me.’ I asked ber where ber little sister was, 
and sbe said sbe ’d gone over Jordan. I ’m glad of it I I 
wish Mabala would go too 1 ” 

V Mrs. Gartney smiled, and Faith could not help laughing 
outright. 

Hendie burst into a passion of tears. 

“Everybody keeps plaguing mel’ It’s too bad!” be 
cried, with tumultuous sobs. 

Eaitb checked ber laughter instantly. She took tbe in- 
dignant little fellow on ber lap, in despite of some slight, 
implacable struggle on bis part, and kissed his pouting lips. 

“ No, indeed, Hendie ! We would n’t plague you for all 
tbe world ! And you don’t know what I ’ve got for you, 
just as soon as you ’re ready for it ! ” 

Hendie took bis little knuckles out of bis eyes, and 


FAITH GAFTNEY S GIRLHOOD. 135 


looked up, inquiringly, holding his hands upraised, mean- 
time, on either side his tearful face, as quite ready to begin 
crying again, in case the proffered diversion should not 
prove satisfactory. 

A hunch of great red cherries, as hig as* youf^wo 
hands ! ” 

The hands went alternately to the eyes again, and 
streaked away the tears for clearer seeing. 

“Where?” 

“ I T1 get them, if you ’re good. And then you can go 
out in the front yard, and eat them, so that you can drop 
, the stones on the grass.” 

Hendie was soon established on a flat stone under the 
old chestnut-trees, in a happy temporary oblivion of Ma- 
hala’s injustice, and her little sister’s unendurable per- 
fections. 

“ I T1 tell you, mamma. I ’ve been thinking we need not 
keep Mahala, if you don’t wish. She has been so used to 
do nothing but run round after Hendie, that, really, she 
is n’t much good about the house ; and I ’ll take Hendie’s 
trundle-bed into my room, and there ’ll be one less chamber 
to take care of ; and you know we always dust and arrange 
down here.” 

“Yes, — but the sweeping, Faithie ! And the washing ! 
Parthenia never would get through with it all.” 

“Well, somebody might come and help wash. And I 
guess I can sweep.” 

“But I can’t bear to put you to such work, darling! 
You need your time for other things.” 

“ I have ever so much time, mother 1 And, besides, as 
Aunt Faith says, I don’t believe it makes so very much 
matter what we do. I was talking to her, the other day. 


136 FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD. 


al30ut doing coarse work, and living a narrow, common 
kind of life, and what do you think she said ? ” 

“ I can’t tell, of course. Something blunt and original.” 

“Wjb were out in the garden. She pointed to some 
plants' that *were coming up from seeds,' that had just two 
tough, clumsy, coarse leaves. ‘ What do you call them ? ’ 
said auntie. ‘ Cotyledons, are n’t they ? ’ said I. ‘ I don’t 
know what they are in botany,’ said she ; ‘ but I know the 
use of ’em. They ’ll last awhile, and help feed up what ’s 
growing inside and underneath, and by-and-by they ’ll drop 
off, when they ’re done with, and you ’ll see what ’s been 
coming of it. Folks can’t live the best right out at first, 
any more than plants can. I guess we all want some kind 
of — cotyledons.’ ” 

Mrs. Grartney’s eyes shone with affection, and something 
that affection called there, as she looked upon her daughter. 

“I guess the cotyledons won’t hinder your growing,” 
said she. 

And so, in a few days after, Mahala was dismissed, and 
Faith took upon herself new duties. 

It was a bright, happy face that glanced hither and 
thither, about the house, those fair summer mornings ; and 
it was n’t the hands alone that were busy, as under their 
dexterous and delicate touch all things arranged themselves 
in attractive and graceful order. Thought straightened 
and cleared itself, as furniture and books were dusted and 
set right ; and while the carpet brightened under the broom, 
something else brightened and strengthened, also, within. 

It is so true, what the author of “ Euthanasy ” tells us, 
that exercise of limb and muscle develops not only them- 
selves, but what is in us as we work. 

Every stroke of the hammer upon the anvil hardens 


FAITH GAHTNET'S GIRLHOOD, 137 


a little what is at the time the temper of the smith’s 
mind.” 

“ The toil of the ploughman furrows the ground, and so 
it does his brow with wrinkles, visibly ; and invisibly, but 
quite as certainly, it furrows the current of feeling, com- 
mon with him at his work, into an almost unchangeable 
channel.” 

Faith’s life-purpose deepened as she did each daily task. 
She had hold, already of the “ high and holy work of love ” 
that had been prophesied. 

“ I am sure of one thing, mother,” said she, gayly ; “ if I 
don’t learn much that is new, I am bringing old knowledge 
into play. It ’s the same thing, taken hold of at different 
ends. I ’ve learned to draw straight lines, and shade pic- 
tures ; and so there is n’t any difficulty in sweeping a carpet 
clean, or setting chairs straight. I never shall wonder 
again that a woman who never heard of a right angle can’t 
lay a table even.” 

12 * 


CHAPTEE XVL 


“ BLESSED BE TE, POOB.” 


And BO vre yearn, and so we sigh, 

And reach for more than we can see } 

And, witless of our folded wings, 

Walk Paradise, unconsciously. 

October came, and brought small dividends. The ex- 
penses upon the farm had necessarily been considerable, 
also, to put things in “good running order.” Mr. Gart- 
ney’s health, though greatly improved, was not yet so con- 
fidently to be relied on, as to make it advisable for him to 
think of any change, as yet, with a view^to business. In- 
deed, there was little opportunity for business, to tempt 
him. Everything was flat. The exhaustion of the great 
financial struggle it had passed through lay, like a paral- 
ysis, upon the community. There was neither confidence 
nor credit. Without actual capital, nothing could be done. 
Mr. Gartney must wait. But when a man finds himself, 
at five-and-forty years of age, out of business, with broken 
health, and in disastrous times, there is little likelihood of 
his launching successfully ever again into any large mer- 
cantile life. Mrs. Gartney and Faith felt, though they 
talked of waiting, that the prospect really before them was 
that of a careful, obscure life, upon a very limited income. 
The house in Mishaumok had stood vacant all the summer. 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 139 


There was hope, of course, of letting it now, as the winter 
season came on, hut rents were falling, and people were 
timid and discouraged. Nobody made any sort of move 
who could help it. 

October was beautiful at Kinnicutt. And Faith, when 
she looked out over the glory of woods and sky, and felt the 
joy of the sunshine, as the hem of summer’s departing robe 
overswept the bright frost-broideries of autumn, making 
such a palpable blessedness abroad — felt rich with the 
great wealth of the world, and forgot about economies and 
privations. She was so glad they had come here with their 
altered plans, and had not struggled shabbily and drearily 
on in Mishaumok I 

It was only when some chance bit of news from the city, 
or a girlish, gossipy note from some school-friend found its 
way to Cross Corners, that she felt, a little keenly, her 
denials, — realized how the world she had lived in all her 
life was going on without her, and how here, environed 
with the beauty of all earth and heaven, she was yet so 
nearly shut out from congenial human companionship. 
There were so many things she had hoped to learn, and to 
do, and to enjoy, that now must be only dreams ! So many 
things she felt herself fitted for, that now might never come 
in her way ! What a strange thing was life ! A longing — 
a reaching — an imagining — a hoping, — was it ever a 
substantial grasping? Were we just put here to catch a 
glimpse of things that might be, and to turn away from all, 
knowing that it may not be, for us ? 

It was the old plaint that Grlory made, in her dark day? 
of childhood, — this feeling of despondency and loss thair 
assailed Faith now and then, — “ such lots of good times i * 
the world, and she not in ’em I ” 


140 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


Mrs. Etherege and Saidie were coming heme. Gertrude 
Eushteigh, Saidie’s old intimate, was to be married on the 
twejitj ghth, and had fixed her wedding thus for the very 
last kj? t: i month, that Miss Gartney might arrive to keep 
her prou ise of long time, by officiating as bridesmaid. 

The family eclipse would not overshadow Saidie. She 
had made her place in the world now, and with her aunt’s 
aid and countenance, would keep it. It was quite different 
with Faith, — disappearing, as she had done, from notice, 
before ever actually “coming out.” 

“It was a thousand pities,” Aunt Etherege said, when 
she and Saidie discussed with Mrs. Gartney, at Cross Cor- 
ners, the family affairs. “And things just as they were, 
too! Why, another year might have settled matters for 
her, so that this need never have happened ! At any rate, 
the child should n’t be moped up here, all winter I ” 

Mrs. Etherege had engaged rooms, on her arrival, at the - 
Mishaumok House ; and it seemed to be taken for granted 
by her, and by Saidie as well, that this coming home was, 
as Faith had long ago prophesied, a mere visit ; that Miss 
Gartney would, of course, spend the greater part of the 
winter with her aunt ; and that lady extended also an invi- 
tation to Mishaumok for a month — including the wedding 
festivities at the Eushleighs ’ — to Faith. 

Faith shook her head. She “knew she couldn’t be 
spared so long.” Secretly, she doubted whether it would 
be a good plan to go back and get a peep at things that 
might send her home discontented and unhappy. 

But her mother reasoned, or felt impulse, otherwise. 
Faithie must go. “ The child must n’t be moped up.” She 
would get on, somehow, without her. Mothers always can. 
So. Faith, by a compromise, went for a fortnight. She 
could n’t quite resist her newly-returned sister. 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 141 


Besides, a pressing personal invitation had come from 
Margaret Eushleigh to Faith herself, with a little p^'^ato 
announcement at the end, that “Paul was refracV and 
utterly refused to act as fourth groomsman, unl^d F'aith 
Gartney were got to come and stand with him.” 

Faith tore off the postscript, and might have lit it at her 
cheeks, hut dropped it, of habit, into the fire ; and then the 
note was at the disposal of the family. 

It was a whirl of wonderful excitement to Faith — that 
fortnight ! So many people to see, so much to hear, and in 
the midst of all, the gorgeous wedding festival ! 

What wonder if a little dream flitted through her head, 
as she stood there, in the marriage group, at Paul Eush- 
Icigh’s side, and looked about her on the magnificent, lashion 
wherein the affection of new relatives and old friends had 
made itself tangible ; and heard the kindly words of the 
elder Mr. Eushleigh to Kate Livingston, who stood with 
his son Philip, and whose bridal, it was well known, was to 
come next? Jewels, and silver, and gold, are such flashing, 
concrete evidences of love ! And the courtly condescension 
of an old and world-honored man to the young girl whom 
his son has chosen, is such a winning and distinguishing 
thing ! 

Paul Eushleigh had finished his college course, and was 
to go abroad this winter — between the weddings, as he 
said — for his brother Philip’s was to take place in the 
coming spring. After that, — things were not quite settled, 
but something was to be arranged for him meanwhile, — 
he would have to begin his work in the world ; and then — 
he supposed it would be time for him to find a helpmeet. 
Marrying was like dying, he believed ; when a family once 
began to go off there was soon an end of it ! 


112 FAITH GARTITEYH GIRLHOOD. 


Blushes were the livery of the evening, and Eaith’s deeper 
glow at this audacious rattle passed unheeded, except, per- 
haps, as it might be somewhat wilfully interpreted. 

There were two or three parties made for the newly- 
married couple in the week that followed:. The week after, 
Paul Eushleigh, with the bride and groom, was to sail for - 
Europe. At each of these brilliant entertainments he con- 
stituted himself, as in duty bound, Faith’s knight and sworn 
attendant; and a superb bouquet for each occasion, the 
result of the ransack of successive greenhouses, came 
punctually, from him, to her door. For years afterward, — 
perhaps for all her life, — Faith could n’t smell heliotrope, 
and geranium and orange flowers, without floating back, 
momentarily, into the dream of thq/se few, enchanted days ! 

She staid in Mishaumok a little beyond the limit she had 
fixed for herself, to go, with the others, on board the steamer 
at the time of her sailing, and see the gay party ofi*. Paul 
Eushleigh had more significant words, and another gift of 
flowers as a farewell. 

When she carried these last to her own room, to put them 
in water, on her return, something she had not noticed be- 
fore glittered among their stems. It was a delicate little 
ring, of twisted gold, with a forget-me-not in turquoise and 
enamel upon the top. 

Faith was half-pleased, half-frightened, and wholly 
ashamed. 

Paul Eushleigh was miles out on the Atlantic. Tliere was 
no help for it, she thought. It had been cunningly done. 

And so, in the short November days, she went- back to 
Kinnicutt. 

The east parlor had to be shut up now, for the winter. 
The family gathering-place was the sunny little sitting- 


FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD. 143 


room ; and with closed doors and doubled windows, they 
began, for the first time, to find that they were really living 
in a little bit of a house. 

It was very pretty, though, with the rich carpet and the 
crimson curtains that had come from Hickory Street, replac- 
ing the white muslin draperies and straw matting of the 
summer ; and the books and vases, and statuettes and pic- 
tures, gathered into so small space, seemed to fill the room 
with luxury and beauty. 

Faith nestled her little work-stand into a nook between 
the windows. Hendie’s blocks and picture books were 
stowed in a corner cupboard. Mr. Gartney’s newspapers 
and pamphlets, as they came, found room in a deep drawer 
below ; and so, through the wintry drifts and gales, they 
were “ close hauled ” and comfortable. 

Faith was happy ; yet she thought, now and then, when 
the whistling wind broke the stillness of the dark evenings, 
of light and music elsewhere ; and how, a year ago, there 
had always been the chance of a visitor or two to drop in, 
and while away the hours. Nobody rang the bell or lifted * 
the old- fashioned knocker, here at Cross Corners. 

By day, even, it was scarcely different. Kinnicutt was 
hibernating. Each household had drawn into its shell. 

* A.nd the huge drifts, lying defiant against the fences in the 
short, ineffectual winter sunlight, held out little hope of 
rcanimation. Aunt Faith, in her pumpkin hood, and Bob 
Boy cloak, and carpet moccasins, came over once in two or 
three days, and even occasionally staid to tea, and helped 
make up a rubber of whist for Mr. Gartney’s amusement ; 
but. beyond this, they had no social excitement. 

January brought a thaw ; and, still further to break the 
monotony, there arose a stir and an anxiety in the parish. 


144 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


Good Mr. Holland, its minister of thirty years, whose 
health had been failing for many months, was at last com- 
pelled to relinquish the duties of his pulpit for a time ; and 
a supply was sought with the ultimate probability of a suc- 
cession. A new minister came to preach, who was to fill the 
pastor’s place for the ensuing three months. On his first 
Sunday among them, Faith heard a wonderful sermon. 

I indicate thus, not the oratory, nor the rhetoric ; but the 
sermon, of which these were the mere vehicle, — the word 
of truth, itself, — which was spoken, seemingly, to her very 
thought. 

So also, as certainly, to the long life-thought of one 
other. Glory McWhirk sat in Miss Henderson’s corner 
pew, and drank it in, as a soul athirst. 

A man of middle age, one might have said, at first sight, 
—-there was, here and there, a silver gleam in the dark 
hair and beard ; yet a fire and earnestness of youth in the. 
deep, beautiful eye, and a look in the face as of life’s first 
flush and glow not lost, but rather merged in broader light, 
still climbing to its culmination, belied these tokens, and 
made it as if a white frost had fallen in June, — rising up 
before the crowded village congregation, looked round upon 
the upturned faces, as One had looked beftre who brought 
the bread of Life to men’s eager asking ; and uttered the 
self-sarae simple words. 

It was a certain pause and emphasis he made, — a slight 
new rendering of punctuation, — that sent home the force 
of those words to the people who heard them, as if it had 
been for the first time, and fresh from the lips of the Great 
. Teacher. 

“ Blessed are the poor : in spirit *■ for theirs is the king- 
dom of heaven.” 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 145 


“ Herein Christ spoke, not to a class, only, hut to the 
world ! A world of souls, wrestling with the poverty of 
life! 

“In that whole assemblage — that great concourse — that 
had thronged from cities and villages to hear His words 
upon the mountain-side,' — was there, think you, one satis^ 
Jied nature ? 

* * F riends — are ye satisfied ? 

“ Or, does eveiy life come to know, at first or at last, how 
something, — a hope, or a possibility, or the fulfilment of 
a purpose, — has got dropped out of it, or has even never 
entered, so that an ^emptiness yawns, craving, therein, 
forever ? 

“ How many souls hunger till they are past their ap- 
petite 1 Gro on, — down through the years, — needy and 
waiting, and never find or grasp that which a sure instinct 
tells them they were made for ? 

“ This, this is the poverty of life I These are the poor, to 
whom Grod’s Grospel was preached in Christ I And to these 
denied and waiting ones the first words of Christ’s preach- 
ing — as I read them — were spoken in blessing. 

“ Because, elsewhere, he blesses the meek ; elsewhere and 
presently, he tells us how the lowly in spirit shall inherit 
the earth ; so. when I open to this, his earliest uttered ben- 
ediction upon our race, I read it with an interpretation that 
includes all humanity. 

“ ‘ Blessed, in spirit, are the poor. Theirs is the kingdom 
of heaven.’ 

“ They, only, who go without, know, truly, what it is to 
have. The light, and the music, and the splendor, and the 
13 


146 FAITH GARTNET’S GIRLHOOD. . 

) 

feasting, are greater to the beggar 'who peeps in from the 
street, than to him who sits at the revel. It is the naked 
and the hungry who can tell you best the good of food and 
raiment. So we live in a paradox. We feel, keenest, the 
joy we never come to. 

“Ye who have missed out of your actual living the an- 
swer to your soul’s passionate asking, — ye whom something 
afar off, that ought to be your very own, passes by like a 
mirage, who see, away off upon the distant horizon, like 
dwellers in a wintry Arctic, a sun circling over happier 
zones, that never comes nigh your zenith, — see here I 
where the unsetting Sun of the Kingdom sends down its 
full and glorious rays into the secret cold and ache within 
you! 


“ Outside may be cold and darkness. Your hands may 
stretch into an unresponsive void. Yet in your spirits are 
ye blessed. There find ye, wide open, the door into the 
Kingdom ! As out of a dream, paths impossible to sense 
and every day show plain and sudden transit into distant 
places, — so from your shut souls widens out an entrance- 
way into God’s everlasting Joy! 

“ Yours is the Kin^om! Because earth is so little, the 
world that lies in and about this visible that we call earth 
becomes so much ! 

“ What is this Kingdom of Heaven? ‘ It is within you.* 
It is that which you hold, and live in spiritually ; the real^ 
of which all earthly, outward being and having are but the 
show. It is the region wherein little children “ do always 
behold the Eaq^ of my Bather which is in Heaven.” It is 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 147 


where We are when we shut our eyes and pray in the words 
that Christ taught us. 

“ There are souls who do not need to live out, coarsely, 
in detail. Their inward conception transcends the visible 
form. Count it an assurance of more vital good, when Glod 
denies you. 

“ All that in any life you know of or can imagine that 
seems to you lovely, and to he longed for, is yours already, 
in that very longing. You take . its essence, so, into your 
souls. And you hold it as Grod’s promise for the great 
time to come. So you have His seal upon your foreheads. 
So He calls you, and shall lead you, into the place He has 
prepared for you from the foundation of the world. There 
is no joy, — there is no beauty, — there is no glory of living 
or of acting, — no supreme moment you can picturg in your 
dreams, that js not in your life, as God sees it, — stirring 
in the intuition you have of it now, — waiting for you in 
the glorious fulfilment that shall be There ! 

“ What matters, then, where your feet stand, or wherewitl^ 
your hands are busy? So that it is the spot where God has 
put you, and the work He has given you to do? Your real 
life is within, — hid in God with Christ, — ripening, and 
strengthening, and waiting, as through the long, geologic 
ages of night and incompleteness waited the germs of all 
that was to unfold into this actual, green, and bounteous 
earth ! 

“ Take in to yourselves, then, fearlessly, all life whereto 
your own life, by any far or secret sympathy, touches, — 


148 FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD, 


for it is yours ! Eejoice with that which doth rejoice, and 
weep with all that weeps ! 

“ Your body can only traverse minute spaces of a tiny 
globe : the minutes of your breathing, mortal life can only 
give you time for puny and unfinished action ; — but the 
^ soul of all that is broad and beautiful, noble and great, 
may be none the less nourishing within you, feeding itself 
on all the life that is living, or has been living, or shall bo 
lived ! 

“The narrower your daily round, the wider, maybe, the 
outreach. Isolated upon a barren mountain-peak, you may 
take in river and lake, — forest, field, and valley. A hun- 
dred gardens and harvests lift their bloom and fulness to 
your single eye. 

“ There is a sunlight that contracts the vision ; there is a 
irfirlight that enlarges it to take in infinite Space. 

“ God sets some souls in shade, alone. 

They have no daylight of their own. 

Only in lives of happier ones 
They see the shine of distant suns. 

“ God kndws. Content thee with thy night. 

Thy greater heaven hath grander light. 

To day is close. The hours are small. 

Thou sitst afar, and hast them all. 

“ Lose the less joy that doth but blind j 
Keach forth a larger bliss to find. 

To-day is brief: the inclusive spheres 
Rain raptures of a thousand years.” ^ 


Faitb could not tell wbat hymn was sung, or what were 
the words of the prayer that followed the sermon. There 
was a music and an uplifting in her own soul that made 
them needless, but for the pause they gave her. 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 149 


She hardly knew that a notice was read as the people 
rose before the benediction, when the minister gave out, as 
requested, that “ the Village Dorcas Society would meet on 
Wednesday of the coming week, at Mrs. Parley Gimp’s.” 

She was made aware that it had fallen upon her ears, 
though heard unconsciously, when Serena Gimp caught her 
by the sleeve in the church porch. 

“ Aint it awful,” said she, with a simper and a flutter of 
importance, to have your name called right out so in the 
pulpit? I declare, if it hadn’t been for seeing the new 
minister, I would n’t have come to meeting, I dreaded it so ! 
Aint he handsome ? He ’s old, though — thirty-five ! He ’s 
broken-hearted, too! Somebody died, or something else, 
that he was going to be married to, ever so many years 
ago ; and they say he has n’t hardly spoken to a lady since. 
That ’s so romantic ! I don’t wonder he preaches such low- 
spirited kind of sermons. Only I wish they war n’t quite 
so. I suppose it ’s beautiful, and heavenly-minded, and all 
that ; but yet I ’d rather hear something a little kind of 
cheerful. Don’t you think so? But the poetry was elegant 
— war n’t it ? I guess it ’s original, too. They say he puts 
things in the ‘ Mishaumok Monthly.’ — Come Wednesday, 
won’t you? We shall depend, you know.” 

To Miss Gimp, the one salient point, amid the solemtfi- 
ties of the day, had been that pulpit notice. She had put 
new strings to her bonnet for the occasion. Mrs. Gimp, 
being more immediately and personally affected, had mod- 
estly remained away from church. 

Faith got away, she hardly knew how. Her mind mis- 
gave her afterward that it had been by a precipitate and 
positi^ promise to attend the meeting of the Village Dorcas 
Society. ^ 


150 FAITH GAETNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


Glory McWhirk went straight through the village, home ; 
and out to her little room in the sunny side of the low, 
sloping roof. This was her winter nook. She had a sha- 
dier one, looking the other way, for summer. 

Does it seem unlikely that this untaught girl should have 
taken in the meaning of the words that had burned upon 
her ear to-day? The speaker’s diction may have been be- 
yond her, here • and there ; it might be impossible for her 
now to gather up in her memory any portion of the precise 
form in which the glorious truth had come to her ; that 
mattered not. It needs not a critical interpretation of Ian* 
guage to apprehend a thought whose rudiment has been 
lying in the soul before. The little seed underneath the 
earth can no further analyze the sunbeam than to snatch 
from it the mysterious vivification it was waiting for. This 
it does, surely. 

‘‘I wonder if it’s all true! ” she cried, silently, in her 
soul, while she stood for a minute with bonnet and shawl 
still on, and grasping still in her fingers what she had held 
there all the morning — her Testament and Sunday-school 
question-book, and folded pocket-handkerchief, — looking 
out from her little window, dreamily, over the dazzle of the 
snow, even as her half-blinded thought peered out from its 
own narrowness into the infinite splendor of the promise of 
God, — “ I wonder if God will ever make me beautiful ! I 
wonder if I shall ever have a real, great joyfulness, that 
is n’t a make-believe I ” 

Glory called her fancies so. They followed her still. 
She lived yet in an ideal world. The real world, — that is, 
the best good of it, — had not come close enough to her, 
even in this, her widely amended condition, to displace the 
other. Kemember, ~ this child of eighteen had missed her 


FAITH GAETNET^S GIRLHOOD. 151 


childhood ; had known neither father nor mother, sister nor 
brother. 

Don’t think her simple, in the pitiful meaning of the 
word ; hut she still enacted, in the midst of her plain, daily 
life, wonderful dreams that nobody could have ever sus- 
pected ; and here, in her solitary chamber, called up at will 
creatures of imagination who were to her what human crea- 
tures, alas ! had never been. Above all, she had a sister 
here, to whom she told all her secrets. This sister’s name 
was Leonora. 


CHAPTEE XVIL 


FROST-WONDERS. 


** No liammers fell, no ponderous axes rung ; 

Like some tall palm, the mystic fabric sprung. 

Majestic silence ! ” Heber, 

The thaw continued till the snow was nearly gone. Only 
the great drifts against the fences, and the white folds in 
the rifts of distant hill-sides lingered to tell what had been. 
Then came a day of warm rain, that washed away the last 
fragpaent of earth’s cast-off vesture, and bathed her pure 
for the new adornment that was to be laid upon her. At 
night, the weather cooled, and the rain changed to a fine, 
slow mist, congealing as it fell. 

Faith stood next morning by a small round table in the 
sitting-room window, and leaned lovingly over her jonquils 
and hyacinths that were coming into bloom. A tall stem 
that had been opening day by day, successively, bright bits 
of golden blossom, stood erect in a small stateliness, with 
its last wee fiower unfolded, and seemed to have taken a 
new attitude and expression, since yesterday, of satisfied 
and proud accomplishment. It was so pert, so dainty, so 
prim, that Faith laughed in the six saucy little faces that 
looked out at her from its slender culm. Then she drew 
the curtain-cord to let in the first sunbeam that should slant 


FAITH GAETHFT’S GIRLHOOD. 153 


from the south upon her bulbs. She had somehow hurried 
from her room, forgetting to throw up her window at the 
moment of her leaving, as it was her habit to do. She 
knew the. sunbeams were coming, though, for they were 
bright from the east upon the linen shades. So her first 
fair glimpse of the day was at raising the white curtain 
slowly over its roller, like the uplifting of a drapery from 
before a scene. 

She gave a little cry of rapturous astonishment. It was 
a diamond morning ! 

Away off, up the lane, and over the meadows, every tree 
and bush was hung with twinkling gems that the slight 
wind swayed against each other with ’tiny crashes of faint 
music, and the sun was just touching with a level splendor. 

Every spire and thorn stood stiff with crystal armor ; the 
stones and fences and tree-boles were veneered with glass. 
The tiniest twig was visible in separate light. The gorgeous 
tracery of the boughs seemed to’ open interminable vistas 
of resplendent intricacy. The field whose green summer 
plenitude gave but one soft sensation to the eye, was a wil- 
derness now, where every glistening grass-blade insisted on 
its individuality. The earth widened out — was magnified. 
The unmeasured blue above seemed to dwindle in the pres- 
ence of all the myriad growths it overarched. 

After that first, quick cry. Faith stood mute with ecstasy. 

“ Mother! ” said she, breathlessly, at last, as Mrs. Gart- 
ney entered, “ look there I have you seen it? J ust imagine 
what the woods must be this morning 1 How can we think 
of buckwheats ? ” 

Sounds and odors betrayed that Mis’ Battis and breakfast 
were in the little room adjoining. 

“ There is a thought of something akin to them, is n^t 


154 FAITH GABTNEY^B GIRLHOOD, 


there, under all this splendor ? Men must live, and grass 
and grain must grow.” 

Mr. Gartney said this, as he came up behind wife and 
daughter, and laid a hand on a shoulder of each. 

“ I know one thing, though,” said Faith. “ I ’ll eat Ihe 
buckwheats, as a vulgar necessity, and then I ’ll go over the 
brook and up in the w^oods behind the Pasture Eocks. It ’ll 
last, wont it ? ” 

“ Not many hours, with this spring balm in the air,” 
replied her father. “You must make haste. By noon, it 
will be all a drizzle.” 

“ AVill it be quite safe for her to go alone? ” asked Mrs. 
Gartney. 

“ I ’ll ask Aunt Faith to let me have Glory. She showed 
me the walk last summer. It is fair she should see this, 
now.” 

So the morning odds and ends were done up quickly at 
Cross Corners and at the Old House, and then Faith and 
Glory set forth together, — the latter in as sublime a rap- 
ture as could consist with mortal cohesion. 

The common road- side was an enchanted path. The glit- 
tering rime transfigured the very cart-ruts into bars of silver; 
and every coarse weed was a fretwork of beauty. 

“ Bells on their toes ” they had, this morning, assuredly ; 
each footfall made a music on the sod. 

And the fringes up and down the brook-side ! In and 
out the arches of his rare “ ice-palace,” leaped the frost- 
defying current, dashing new jewels right and left, like a 
king scattering largess as he rides along ! 

Over the slippery bridge, — out across a stretch of, open 
meadow, and then along a track that skirted the border of 
a sparse growth of trees, projecting itself like a promontory 


FAITH GAETNEY’S GIRLHOOD, 155 

upon the level land, — round its abrupt angle into a sweep 
of meadow again, on whose farther verge rose the Pasture 
Kocks. This was their way. 

Behind these rocks swelled up gently a slope, half pasture, 
half woodland, — neither open ground nor forest; but, al- 
though clear enough for comfortable walking, studded pretty 
closely with trees that often interlaced their branches over- 
head, and made great, pillared aisles, among whose shade, 
in summer, wound delicious little foot-paths that all came 
out together, midway up, into — what you shall he told of 
presently. 

Around the borders- of the meadows they had crossed, 
grew luxuriant elms, that made, with their low, sweeping 
boughs, festoons, and bowers, and far-off mounds of light. 

Here, among and beyond the rocks, were oaks, and pines, 
and savins, — each needle-like leaf a shimmering lance, — 
each clustering branch a spray of gems, ■ — and the stout, 
spreading limbs of the oaks delineating themselves against 
the sky above in Gothic frost-work. 

Great icicles hung from points of craggy stone, and 
dropped, crashing in the stillness, from tips of branches 
that overhung them as they went. This, with now and 
then a chick-a-dee’s note, was all the winter music of the 
woods. But the grandeur of that silence! The awe of 
standing there, with the flashing groins of those wild and 
mighty arches overhead, and the low wind whispering 
through, like an awaking organ, and the sunlight coming 
down out of the blue above, and penetrating in broad 
gleams, like a living Presence 1 

One chant reiterated itself in Faith’s soul, as she gazed 
and listened. “ The Lord is in His Holy Temple ; let all 
the earth keep silence before Him 1 ” 


156 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


As for Glory, she walked on, in a hushed joy, as if an 
angel led her. 

Suddenly, — before they thoughj; it could be so near, — 
they came up and out into a broader opening. Between two 
rocks that made, as it were, a gate-way, and around whose 
bases were grouped sentinel evergreens, they came into this 
wider space, floored with flat rock, the surface of a hidden 
ledge, carpeted with crisp mosses in the summer, whose 
every cup and hollow held a jewel now, — and enclosed 
with lofty oaks and pines, while, straight beyond, where 
the woods shut in again far closer than below, rose a bold 
crag, over whose brow hung pendent birches that in their 
icy robing drooped like glittering wings of cherubim above 
an altar. 

All around and underneath, this strange magnificence. 
Overhead, the everlasting Blue, that roofed it in with sap- 
phire. In front, the rough, gigantic shrine. 

“ It is like a cathedral ! ” said Faith, solemnly and low. 

See ! ” whispered Glory, catching her companion hastily 
by the arm, — “ there is the minister ! ” 

A little way beyond them, at the right, out from among 
^he clumps of evergreen where some other of the little wood- 
walks opened, a figure advanced without perceiving them. 
It was Eoger Armstrong, the new minister. He held his 
hat in his hand. He walked, uncovered, as he would have 
done into a church, into this forest temple, where God’s 
finger had just been writing on the walls. 

When he turned, slowly, his eye fell on the other two 
who stood there. It lighted up with a quick joy of sympa- 
thy. He came forward. Faith bowed. Glory stood back, 
shyly. Neither party seemed astonished at the meeting. It 
was so plain why they came, that if they had wondered at 


FAITH GARTNET’S GIRLHOOD, 157 


all, it would liave been that tbe whole village should not be 
pouring out hither, also. 

J\Ir. Armstrong led them to the centre of the rocky space. 
“ This is the best point,” said he. And then was silent. 
There was no need of words. A greatness of thought made 
itself felt from one to the other, without expression. 

Only, between still pauses, words came that almost spoke 
themselves. 

“ ‘ Eye hath not seen, nor hath it entered into the heart 
of man to conceive, that which God hath prepared for them 
that love him.’ What a commentary upon His promise is a 
glory like this ! ” 

“ ‘ And they shall all shine like the sun in the kingdom 
of my Father ! ’ ” 

Faith stood by the minister’s side, and glanced, when he 
spoke, from the wonderful beauty before her to a face whose 
look interpreted it all. There was something in the very 
presence of this man that drew others who approached him 
into the felt presence of God. Because he stood therein in 
the spirit. These are the true -apostles whom Christ sends 
forth. 

Glory could have sobbed with an oppression of reverence, 
enthusiasm, and joy. 

“It is only a glimpse,” said Mr. Armstrong, by-and-by. 
“ It is going, already.” 

A drip — drip — was beginning to be heard in the woods. 

“You ought to get away from under the trees before the 
thaw comes fully on,” continued he. “A branch breaks, 
now and then, and the ice will be falling constantly, when 
it once begins to loosen. I can show you a more open way 
than the one you came by, I think.” 

And he gave his arm to Faith over the slope that even 
14 


158 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


now was growing wet and slippery in the sun. Faith touched 
it with a reverence, and dropped it again, modestly, when 
they reached a safer foothold. 

Glory kept behind. Mr. Armstrong turned now and then, 
with a kindly’ word, and a thought for her safety. Once he 
took her hand, and helped her down a sudden descent in 
the path, where the water had run over and made a smooth, 
dangerous glare. 

“ I shall call soon to see your father and mother. Miss 
Gartney,” said he, when they reached the road again beyond 
the brook, and their ways home lay in different directions. 

This meeting, to-day, has given me pleasure.’* 

“ How ? ” Faith wondered silently, as she kept on to the 
Cross Corners. She had hardly spoken a word. But, then, 
she might have remembered that the minister’s own words 
had been few, ' yet her very speechlessness before him had 
come from the deep pleasure that his presence had given 
to her. The recognition of souls cares little for words.) 
Faith’s soul had been in her face to-day, as Eoger Arm- 
strong had seen it each Sunday, also, in the sweet, listen- 
ing look she uplifted before him in the church. He bent 
towards this young, pure life, with a joy in its gentle 
purity; the joy of an elder over a younger angel in the 
school of God. 

And Glory ? she laid up in her own heart a beautiful 
remembrance of something she had never known before. 
Of a near approach to something great and high, yet gentle 
and beneficent. Of a kindly, helping touch, a gracious 
smile, a glance that spoke straight to the miite aspiration 
within her. 

The minister had not failed, through all her humbleness 
and shyness, to read some syllables of that large, unuttered 


FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD, 159 


life of hers that lay beneath. He whose labor it is to save 
souls, learns always the insight that discerns souls. 

“ I have seen the Winter ! ” cried Faith, glowing and 
joyous, as she came in from her walk. 

“It has been a beautiful time I” said ‘Glory to her 
shadow-sister, when she went to hang away hood and 
shawl. “It has been a beautiful time, — and IVe-been 
really in it, — partly I 


CHAPTEE XVIII. 


OtJI IN THE SNOW, 

• 

“ Sydneian showers 
Of sweet discourse, whose powers 
Can crown old winter’s head with flowers.” 

f Crashaw. 

Winter had not exhausted her repertory, however. She 
had more wonders to unfold. 

There came a long snow-storm. 

Steadily, patiently, persistently, the tiny flakes came 
down out of a great, gray, inexhaustible gloom above, and 
fell, each to its appointed place, rounding up and out, 
everywhere, the marvellous sculpture that is builded, not 
chiselled, and transforming common things into shapes of 
dreamy grace and splendor. Stilly and surely, — all day, 
all night, almost all day again, — the work of atoms went 
on mightily ; till the clouds, like artists falling back before 
their flnished work, parted, and let in the sun to look on 
what they had achieved. Then fell an afternoon effulgence 
over all. Peaks and mounds and drifts glanced in a rosy 
light. The great trees held their branches in a breathless 
quietness, lest their perfect draperies should be disturbed. 
There was a strange hush in nature. The world was muffled. 
All the indefinite stir that tells us in the stillest of other 
scenes, that a deep, palpitating life goes on under whatever 


FAITH GAETNET^S GIRLHOOD. 161 


look of rest tke earth assumes, was covered and soundless 
now. It was a pause of pure completeness. 

“ Faithie,” said her father, coming in, wrapped up in furs, 
from a visit to the stable, “ put your comfortables on, and 
we ’ll go and see the snow. We ’ll make tracks, literally, for 
the hills. There is n’t a road fairly broken between here 
and Grover’s Peak. The snow lies beautifully, though ; and 
there isn’t a breath of wind. It will be a sight to see.” 

Faith brought, quickly, sontag, jacket, and cloak, — hood 
and veil, and long, warm snow-boots, and in ten minutes 
was ready, as she averred, for a sledge ride to Hudson’s Bay. 

Luther drove the sleigh close to the kitchen door, that 
Faith might not have to cross the yard to reach it, and she 
stepped directly from the threshold into the warm nest of 
buffalo-robes ; while Mis’ Battis put a great stone jug of 
hot water in beside her feet, asserting that it was “ a real 
comfortin’ thing on a sleigh-ride, and that they need n’t be 
afraid of its leakin’, for the cork was druv in as tight as an 
eye-tooth ! ” 

So, out by the barn, into the road, and away from the 
village toward the hills, they went, with the glee of resonant 
bells and excited expectation. 

A mile, or somewhat more, along the Sedgely turnpike, 
took them into a bit of woods that skirted the road on either 
side, for a considerable distance. Away in, under the trees, 
the stillness and the whiteness and the wonderful multipli- 
cation of snow-shapes were like enchantment. Each bush 
had an attitude and drapery and expression of its own, as 
if some weird life had suddenly been spellbound in these 
depths. Cherubs, and old women, and tall statue-shapes 
like images of gods, hovered, and bent, and stood majestic, 
in a motionless poise. Over all, the bent boughs made 

14 * 


162 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


marble and silver arcbes in shadow and light, and, far 
down between, the vistas lengthened endlessly, still crowded 
with mystic figures, haunting the long galleries with their 
awful beauty. 

They went on, penetrating a lifeless silence ; their horse’s 
feet making the first prints since early morning in the un- 
broken smoothness of the way, and the only sound the 
gentle tinkle of their own bells, as they moved pleasantly, 
but not fleetly, along. 

So, up the ascent, where the land lay higher, toward the 
hills. 

“ I feel,” said Faith, “ as if I had been hurried through the 
Louvre, or the Vatican, or both, and had n’t half seen any- 
thing. Was there ever anything so strange and beautiful?” 

“ We shall find more Louvres, presently,” said her father. 
“ We ’ll keep the road round Grover’s Peak, and turn off, 
as we come back, down Garland Lane.” 

“ That lovely, wild, shady road we took last summer so 
often, where the grape-vines grow so, all over the trees ? ” 

“ Exactly,” replied IVIa Gartney. “ But you must n’t 
scream if we thump about a little, in the drifts up there. 
It ’s pretty rough, at the best of times, and the snow will 
have filled in the narrow spaces between the rocks and 
ridges, like a freshet. Shall you be afraid ? ” 

Afraid ! Oh, no, indeed ! It ’s glorious ! I think I 
should like to go everywhere ! ” 

“ There is a good deal of everywhere in every little dis- 
tance,” said Mr. Gartney. “ People get into cars, and go 
whizzing across whole states^ often, before they Stop to 
thoroughly enjoy something that is very like what they 
might have found within ten miles of home. For my part, 
I like microscopic journeying.” 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 163 

“Leaving ‘no stone unturned.* So do I,” said Faitli. 
“We don’t half know the journey between Kinnicutt 
and Sedgely yet, I think. And then, too, they ’re multi- 
plied, over and over, by all the different seasons, and by 
different sorts of weather. Oh, we shan’t use them up, in 
a long while ! ” 

Saidie Gartney had not felt, perhaps, in all her European 
travel, the sense of inexhaustible pleasure that Faith had 
when she said this. 

Down under Grover’s Peak, with the river on one side, 
and the white-robed cedar thickets rising on the other, — 
with the low afternoon sun glinting across from the frosted 
roofs of the red mill-buildings and barns and fartn-houses 
to the rocky slope of the Peak, where pines and cedars and 
hemlocks stood, like sheeted sentinels, and from every 
crevice sprang a sturdy shrub in grotesque disguise, like a 
gnome guarding or indicating treasure, — they seemed -tp, 
go, as Faith said, “ right into a fairy tale ; ” the wild forms 
and aspects of nature blending so with the signs of sim- 
ple, human life. She could fancy a bold peasant, coming 
up from the little settlement beneath to his wood-piles on 
the steep hill-side, encountering strange adventures there 
among the crags ; and that the sprite-like apparitions 
gleaming out so in the twilight of the place, watched and 
presided, elfishly, over the mortal haps below. Certain 
physical aspects transport us, mysteriously, into certain 
mental atmospheres. She got a flavor of Grimm and An- 
dersen; here, under Grover’s Peak. 

Then they came round and up again, over a southerly 
ridge, by beautiful Garland Lane, that she knew only in 
its summer look, when the wild grape festooned itself 
wantonly from branch to branch, and sometimes, even, 


164: FAITH GAETNET^S GIRLHOOD. 

from side to side ; and so gave tlie narrow forest-road its 
name. 

Quite into fairy-land they had come now, in truth ; as if, 
skirting the dark peak that shut it off from ordinary espial, 
they had lighted on a by-path that led them covertly in. 
Trailing and climbing vines wore their draperies lightly ; 
delicate shrubs bowed like veiled shapes in groups around 
the bases of tall tree-trunks, and slight-stemmed birches 
quivered under their canopies of snow. Little birds hopped 
in and out under the pure, still shelter, and left th^r tiny 
tracks, like magical hieroglyphs, in the else untrodden 
paths. 

“Lean this way. Faith, and keep steady!” cried Mr. 
Gartney, as the horse plunged breast-high into a drift, and 
the sleigh careened toward the side Faith was on. It was 
a sharp strain, but they ploughed their way through, and 
came upon a level again. This by-street was literally un- 
broken. No one had traversed it since the beginning of the 
storm. The drifts had had it all their own way there, and 
it involved no little adventurousness and risk, as Mr. Gart- 
ney began to see, to pioneer a passage through. But the 
spirit of adventure was upon them both. On all, I should 
say ; for the strong horse plunged forward, from drift to 
drift, as though he delighted in the encounter. Moreover, 
to turn was impossible. 

Faith laughed, and gave little shrieks, alternately, as 
they rose triumphantly from deep, “ slumpy ” hollows, or 
pitched headlong into others again. Thus, struggling, en- 
joying, —just frightened enough, now and then, to keep up 
the excitement, — they came upon the summit of the ridge. 
Now their way lay downward. This began to look really 
almost perilous. With careful guiding, however, and skilful 


FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD. 165 


balancing, — tipping, creaking, sinking, emerging, — they 
kept on slowly, about half tbe distance down tbe descent. 

The sagacious horse grew warier at every step. He 
seemed to understand the difficulty and the danger. Lift- 
ing his fore feet high, one after the other, with tremendous 
strides, he would reach them on, and plant them deep in 
tlie uncertain drifts, and then, with a strain and a tug, 
bring hinder feet and all his burden after. 

In the intervals of immediate excitement and anxiety, 
Laitli topk in the wonderful, almost mountainous aspect of 
the snoV-piled group of hills they were among. It was 
wild, dreary, solitary. Hot a house was to be seen. There 
were, in fact, none nearer than the little settlement at 
Grover’s Mills. Down below them Wound the level road 
which they had to regain. 

Suddenly, the horse, as men and brutes, however saga- 
cious, sometimes will, made a miscalculation of depth or 
power, — lost his sure balance, — sunk to his body in the 
yielding snow, — floundered violently in an endeavor to 
regain safe footing, — and, snap ! crash ! was down against 
the drift at the left, with a broken shaft under him ! 

Mr. Gartney sprang to his head. 

One runner was up, — one down. The sleigh stuck fast 
at an angle of about thirty degrees. Faith clung to the 
upper side. 

Here was a situation I What was to be done ? Twilight 
coming on, — no help near, — no way of getting anywhere ! 

“Faith,” said Mr. Gartney, “ what have you got on your 
feet?” 

“ Long, thick snow-boots, father. What can I do ? ” 

“ Do you dare to come and try to unfasten these buckles? 
There is no danger.. Major can’t stir while I hold him by 
the head.” 


166 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 

raith jumped out into tlie snow, and valorously set to 
work at the buckles. She managed to undo one, and to 
slip out the fastening of the trace, on one side, where it held 
to the whiffletree. But the horse was lying so that she 
could not get at the other. 

“ I ’ll come there, father ! ” she cried, clambering and 
struggling through the drift till she came to the horse’s 
head. “ Can’t I hold him while you undo the har- 
ness ? ” 

“ I don’t believe you can, Faithie. He is n’t down so flat 
as to be quite under easy control.” 

“Not if I sit on his head?” asked Faith, seeing that 
her father simply pressed with both hands downward 
upon it. 

“ That might^do,” replied her father, laughing. “Only 
you would get frightened, maybe, and jump up too soon.” 

“No, I won’t,” said Faith, quite determined upon hero- 
ism. While she spoke, she had picked up the whip, which 
had fallen close by, doubled back the lash against the handle, 
and was tying her blue veil to its tip. Then she sat down 
on the animal’s great cheek, which she had never fancied to 
be half so broad before, and gently patted his nose with one 
hand, while she upheld her blue flag with the other. Major’s 
big, panting breaths came up, close beside her face. She 
kept a quick, watchful eye upon the road below. 

“ He ’s as quiet as can be, father! It must be what Miss 
Beecher called the ‘ chivalry of horses I ’” 

“It’s the chivalry that has to develop under petticoat 
government ! ” retorted Mr. Gartney, glancing at the meek 
nose that projected itself beyond the sweep of crinoline, as 
he came nearer to unbuckle the saddle-girth. 

At this moment Faith’s blue flag wav(^ vehemently over 


FAITH GARTNHT^S GIRLHOOD, 167 


her head. She had caught the jingle of bells, and perceived 
a sleigh, with a man in it, come out into the crossing at the 
foot of Garland Lane. The man descried the eignal and 
the disaster, and the sleigh stopped. Alighting, he led his 
horse to the fence, fastened him there, and turning aside 
into the steep, narrow, unbroken road, began a vigorous 
struggle through the drifts to reach the wreck. 

Coming nearer, he discerned and recognized Mr. Gartney, 
who also, at the same moment, was aware of him. It was 
Mr. Armstrong. • 

“ Keep still a minute longer. Faith,” said her father, lift- 
ing the remaining shaft against the dasher, and trying to 
push the sleigh back, away from the animal. But this, 
alone, he was unable to accomplish. He was forced to 
await the arrival of his timely helper. So the minister 
came up, and found Faith still seated on the horse’s head. 

“ Miss Gartney ! Let me hold him I ” cried he, advanc- 
ing to relieve her. 

<‘I’m quite comfortable!” laughed Faith. “If you 
would just help my father, please! I couldn’t do that 
so well” ^ 

The sleigh was drawn back by the combined effort of the 
two gentlemen, and then both came quickly round to Faith. 

“Now, Faith, jump ! ” said her father, placing his hands 
upon the creature’s temple, close beside her, while Mr. Arm- 
strong caught her arms to snatch her safely away. Faith 
sprang, or was lifted as she sprang, quite to the top of the 
huge bank of snow under and against which they had, among 
them, beaten in and trodden down such a hollow, and the 
instant after, Mr. Gartney releasing Major’s head, and ut- 
tering a sound of encouragement, the horse raised himself, 
with a half roll, and a mighty scramble, first to his knees, 


168 FAITH GARTNET;S GIRLHOOD, 


and then to his four feet again, and shook his great skin, 
and all his loosened trappings, with an enormous shudder, 
to scatter the snow. Then he looked round, with an ex- 
pression of undeserved discomfiture. He was like a gen- 
eral who has planned well, and fought well, but, by a sheer 
misfortune, has lost his battle, and stands for the world to 
look upon him as it may. 

Mr. Gartney examined the harness. The broken shaft 
proved the extent of damage done. This, at the moment, 
however, w^as irremediable. He knotted the hanging straps 
and laid them over the horse’s neck. Then he folded a 
buffalo-skin, and arranged it, as well as he could, above 
and behind the saddle, which he secured again by its girth. 

“ Mr. Armstrong,” said he, as he completed this disposal 
of matters, “you came along in good time. I am very 
much obliged to you. If you will do me the further favor 
to take my daughter home, I will ride to the nearest house 
where I can obtain a sleigh, and some nne to send back for 
these traps of mine.” 

“Miss Gartney,” said the minister, in answer, “can v /ii 
sit a horse’s back as well as you did his eyebrow?’’ 

Faith laughed, and reaching her arms to the hands up^ 
held for them, was borne safely from her snowy pinnacle to 
the buffalo cushion. Her father took the horse by tin bit, 
and Mr. Armstrong kept at his side holding Faith firmly 
to her seat. In this fashion, grasping thn bridle with one 
hand, and resting the other on Mr. Armstrong’s shoulder, 
she was transported somewhat roughly, but not uncomfort- 
ably, to the sleigh at the foot of the hill. 

“We were talking about long journeys in small circuits,” 
^aid Faith, when she was well tucked in, and they had set 
off easily and with tolerable rapidity on a level and not 


FAITH GAETNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 169 

utterly untracked road. “ I think I have been to the Al- 
hambra, and to E.ome, and have had a peep into fairy-land, 
and come back, at last, over the Alps ! ” 

Mr. Armstrong understood her. -'It is such a comfort to 
know one’s hearer will ! 

‘ ‘ It has been beautiful,” said he. After a little pause, — 
“ I shall begin to expect always to encounter you whenever 
I get among things wild and wonderful ! ” 

“And yet I have lived all my life, till now, in tame 
streets,” said Faith. “I thought I was getting into tamer 
places still, when we first came to the country. But I am 
finding out Kinnicutt. One can’t see the whole of anything 
at once.” 

“We are small creatures, and can only pick up atoms as 
we go, whether of things outward or inward. People talk 
about taking ‘comprehensive views;’ and they suppose they 
do it. There is only One who does.” 

Faith was silent. 

“ Did it ever occur to you,” said Mr. Armstrong, “ how 
little your thought can really grasp at once, even, of what 
you already know ? How narrow your mental horizon is? ” 
Faith looked up with a timid flash of questioning intelli- 
gence. Her silence asked him to say more. 

“Literally, I mean,” continued the minister. “How 
little we clearly conceive of what we think we have learned 
longest and best? For instance. Arithmetic. We have 
what we call a science of numbers, and we talk about num- 
bers, and manage them on paper ; but how many separate 
things that numbers stand for, can you think of at once ? 
Suppose they were only apples, lying on a table ? ” 

Faith laughed, and then considered. 

“Twenty — five, perhaps,” said she. 

15 


170 - FAITH GARTNFT’S GIRLHOOD. 


“Ah, you multiply! ” said Mr. Armstrong. “You are 
thinking of five times five ! ” 

“Yes, I was,” she answered, with an amused thoughtful- 
‘ ness. “ I must come down to five,” said she, frankly, after 
a pause. “ Six are twice three.” 

“You come down to your five fingers, to speak with ’the 
common latitude,” said Mr. Armstrong. “ That seems j^o 
he the foundation and the limit. Yet, there is One who 
knoweth ‘ all the cedars of Lebanon,’ and the ‘ cattle upon 
a thousand hills.’ Who notes every sparrow as it falls, and 
* numbers the very hairs of our heads.’ ” 

“We do think of large numbers, in the abstract, though,” 
said Faith, after a minute’s hushed reception of that last 
thought. 

“ Yes, but how ? ” replied the minister, “I ’ll tell you 
how I do it. I wonder if your way is at all like mine. 
Do you fancy the figures, from one to one hundred, ranged 
in three sides of a parallelogram, with the tens a little 
taller than the rest, and the corners turned somewhere 
about twenty and eighty?” 

Faith’s face brightened all over with a surprised recog- 
nition of something in another that she had imagined all 
her own. 

“That is so strange!” she exclaimed. “But why do 
you turn those sharp corners? My numbers stand round 
in a smooth semicircle.” 

Mr. Armstrong laughed. “ The difference of minds,” 
said he. “ Yours seems to be spherical, — mine angular.” 

“ Then there are the days, and the months,” said Faith. 

“ Yes,” replied Mr. Armstrong. “ Eeally, the days and 
months are nowhere, except as the globe measures them out 
in space, and the sutilight scores them between the poles ; 


FAIIH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 171 


but I see them stretcbing out, before and after, in little ob- 
long mosaics, set in lines, for weeks and years. 

“And the Sundays a little longer and wider and whiter 
than the rest,” put in Faith. “ And the nights are the 
broad, black spaces between.” 

“I think my nights are steps down, from one day to 
another, and of no perceptible length or color. At least, 
that is what they used to. be when I was a child, and I have 
never got rid of the old image.” 

“ Then,” resumed the minister, “what sort of Geography 
do we really learn? How much of a notion do we get of 
Europe and Asia, Africa and America? For me, I Ve got a 
little spectrum of an Atlas in my head, and that is all. My 
idea of the whole globe would n’t cover the space we have 
to traverse between here and Cross Corners. Just look out 
there to the west,” continued he, pointing toward the sunset, 
“ and remember that you only see three or four miles, and 
then think of all the rest that lies between this and the 
Hudson, and of New York,' and Ohio, and Indiana, and 
Illinois ! We cau no more picture the outstretch of the 
continent, — away out beyond the Green Eidge, and the 
Catskills, and the Great Lakes, and the Mississippi, and 
the Eocky Mountains, to the forests of Oregon and the 
beaches of the Pacific, — than we can take eternity into our 
thought!” 

“ Don’t it seem strange,” said Faith, in a subdued tone, 
“ that it should all have been made for such little lives to 
be lived in, each in its gorner ? ” 

“If it did not thereby prove these little lives to be but 
the beginning. This great Beyond that we get glimpses of, 
even upon earth, makes it so sure td* us that there- must bo 
an Everlasting Life, to match the Infinite Creation. God 


172 FAITH GAETNEY'S GIRLHOOD. 


puts us, as He did Moses, into a cleft of the rock, that we 
may catch a glimmer of His glory as He goes by ; and then 
He tells us that one day we “ shall know even as also we 
are known ! 

“ And .1 suppose it ought to make us satisfied to live 
whatever little life is giveil us ? ” said Faith, gently and 
wistfully. 

Mr. Armstrong turned toward her, and looked earnestly 
into her eyes. 

“ Has that thought troubled you, too? Never let it do so 
again, my child ! Believe that however little of tangible 
present good you may have, you have the unseen good of 
heaven, and the promise of all things to come.” 

“ But we do see lives about us in the world that seem to 
be and to accomplish so much ! ” 

“ And so we ask why ours should not be like them ? Yes; 
all souls that aspire, must question that ; but the answer 
comes ! I will give you, some day, if you like, the thought 
that comforted me at a time when that question was a 
struggle.” 

“ I, should like ! ” said Faith, with deeply stirred and 
grateful emphasis. 

Then they drove on in silence, for awhile ; and then the 
minister, pleasantly and easily, brought on a conversation 
of every-day matters ; and so they came to Cross Corners, 
just as Mrs. Gartney was gazing a little anxiously out of 
the window, down the road. 

“Father is coming,” said Faith, reassuringly, the instant 
the door was opened. “We broke a shaft in getting through 
a great drift, and he had to go and borrow a sleigh. Mr. 
Armstrong has been ki^J enough to bring me home, mother.” 

Mrs. Gartney urged the minister to come in and join them 


FAITH GAETNET^S GIRLHOOD, 173 


at the tea-table; but “ it was late in the week, — he had 
writing to finish at home that evening, — he would very 
glady come another time/’ 

“ Mother ! ” cried Faith, presently, moving out of a dream 
in which she had been sitting before the fire, — “I wonder 
whether it has been two hours, or two weeks, or two years, 
since we set off from the kitchen door ! I have seen so much, 
and I have heard so much. I told Mr. Armstrong, after 
we met him, that I had been through the Alhambra and 
the Vatican, and into fairy-land, and over the Alps. And 
after that, mother,” she added, low, “ I think he almost 
took me into heaven I ” 

15 * 


CHAPTER XIX. 


A “ LEADING.” 

** The least flower, with a brimming cup, may stand 
And share its dew-drop with another near.” 

Mrs. Bbowndto. 

Glory McWhirk was waiting up stairs, in EaitVs pretty, 
white, dimity-hung chamber. 

These two girls, of such utterly different birth and train- 
ing, were drawing daily toward each other across the gulf 
of social circumstance that separated them. They were 
together in Mr. Armstrong’s Bible Class. Sunday after 
Sunday, they sat side by side, and received the same beau- 
tiful interpretation of truth into eager, listening souls. 
And, as Aunt Henderson said, “when we take our Bible- 
meat together, why not the meat that perisheth ? ” 

Faith Gartney came to know much of Glory’s secret inner 
nature and wants. And from sitting down together some- 
times on a Saturday afternoon in the southwest room at the 
old house, to look over the lesson for the Sunday, there 
grew up a little plan of kindliness and benefit between 
them. 

Twice a week, now, Glory came over, and found her seat 
and her books ready in Miss Faith’s pleasant room, and 
Faith herself waiting to impart to her, or to put her in the 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 175 


way of gathering, those hits of week-day knowledge sho 
had ignorantly hungered for so long. 

Glory made quick progress. A good, plain, foundation 
had been laid during the earlier period of her stay with 
Miss Henderson, by a regular attendance, half-daily, at the 
district school. Aunt Faith said “ nobody’s time belonged 
to anybody that knew better themselves, until they could 
read, and write, and figure, and tell which side of the globe 
they lived on.” Then, too, the girl’s indiscriminate glean- 
ing from such books as had come in her way, through all 
these years, assorted itself gradually, now, about new facts, 
like patchwork that had been laid by in bits, confusedly, 
but began to be arranged in symmetry, and to grow toward 
a whole. Or rather, — for knowledge, in its accretion, fol- 
lows such law, — that which had been held loosely, as par- 
ticles, in solution, gathered and crystallized, — each atom 
finding its sure place, and building up forms of light and 
beauty. 

Glory’s “ good times ” had, verily, begun at last. 

On this day that she sat waiting, Faith had been called 
down by her mother to receive some village ladies who had 
walked oyer to Cross Corners to pay a visit. Glory had time 
for two or three chapters of “ Ivanhoe,” and to tell Hendie, 
who strayed in, and begged for it, Bridget Foye’s old story 
of the little red hen, while the regular course of topics was 
gone through below, of the weather, — the new minister, — 
the last meeting of the Dorcas Society, — the everlasting 
wants and helplessness of Mrs. Sheffley and her seven chil- 
dren, and whether the society had better do anything more 
for them, — the trouble in the west district school, and the 
question “where the Dorcas bag was* to go next time.” 

At last, the voices and footsteps retreated, through the 


176 ^ FAITH GARTHET^S GIRLHOOD. 

entiy, tlie door closed somewhat proniptly as the last “good- 
afternoon ” was said, and Faith sprang up the narrow stair- 
case. 

There were a lesson in Geography, and a hit of Natural 
Philosophy to he done first, and then followed their Bihle 
talk ; for this was Saturday. 

Before Glory went it had come to he Faith’s practice always 
to read to her some hit of poetry, — a gem from Tennyson 
or Mrs, Browning, or a stray poem from a magazine or paper 
which she had laid hy as worthy. This was as we give 
children a cake or a sugar-plum, at parting, to carry away 
with them. 

“Glory,” said she, to-day, “I’m going to let you share 
a little treasure of mine, — something Mr. Armstrong gave 
me.” 

Glory’s eyes deepened and glowed. 

“It is thoughts,” said Faith. “ Thoughts in verse. I 
shall read it to you, because I think it will just answer you, 
as it did me. Don’t you feel, sometimes, like a little hrook 
in a deep wood? ” 

^ Glory’s gaze never moved from Faith’s face. Her poeli- 
cal instinct seized the image, and the thought of her life 
applied it. 

“ All alone, and singing to myself? Yes, I did. Miss 
Faith. But I think it .is growing lighter and pleasanter 
eveiy day. I think I am getting — ” 

“ Stop! stop 1” said Faith. “ Don’t steal the verse's be- 
fore I read them! You ’re such a queer child, Glory! One 
never can tell you anything. You have always all hut got 
it, already.” 

And then Faith gave her pearls ; because she knew they 
would not he trampled under foot, l)ut taken into a heart 


i 

FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD. 177 

and held there ; and because just such a rapt and reverent 
ecstasy as her own had been when the minister had given 
her, in fulfilment of his promise, this thought of his for the 
comfort that was in it, looked out from the face that was 
uplifted to hers, radiant with a joy like that of one taken 
into converse with the angels. 


“ Up in the wild, where no one comes to look, 

There lives and sings, a little lonely brook ; 

Liveth and singeth in the dreary pines. 

Yet creepeth on to where the daylight shines. 

“ Pure from their heaven, in mountain chalice caught, 

It drinks the rains, as drinks the soul her thought} 

And down dim hollows, where it winds along. 

Bears its life-burden of uhlistened song. 

I catch the murmur of its undertone 
That sigheth, ceaselessly, — alone ! alone! 

And hear, afar, the llivers gloriously 
Shout on their paths toward the shining sea J 

“ The voiceful Rivers, chanting to the sun j 
And wearing names of honor, every one ; 

Outreachiug wide, and joining hand with hand 
To pour great gifts along the asking land. 

“ Ah, lonely brook ! creep onward through the pines ! 
Press through the gloom, to where the daylight shines ! 
Sing on among the stones, and secretly 
Feel how the floods are all akin to thee ! 

“ Drink the sweet rain the gentle heaven sendeth ; 

Hold thine own path, howeverward it tendeth } 

For, somewhere, underneath the eternal sky. 

Thou, too, shalt find the Rivers, by-and-by ! ” 


Faith’s voice trembled with earnestness as she finished. 
When she looked up from the paper as she refolded it, 
tears of feeling were running down Glory’s cheeks. 

“Why, the little brook has overflowed!” cried Faith, 


« 


178 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


playfully. If she had not found this to say, she would 
have cried, herself. 

“ Miss Faith ! ” said Glory, “ I aint sure whether I was 
meant to tell ; but do you know what the minister has 
asked Miss Henderson ? Perhaps she won’t ; I ’m afraid 
not ; it would be too good a time ! but he wants her to let 
him come and board with her! Just think what it would 
be for him to be in the house with us all the time 1 Why, 
Miss Faith, it would be just as if one of those great Eivers 
had come rolling along through the dark woods, right among 
the little lonely brooks 1 ” 

Faith made no answer. She was astonished. Miss Hen- 
derson had said nothing of it. She never did make known 
her subjects of deliberation till the deliberations had be- 
come conclusions. 

“ AVhy, you don’t seem glad ! ” 

“I am glad,” said Faith, slowly and quietly. She was 
strangely conscious at the moment that she said so, glad as 
she would be if Mr, Armstrong were really to come so near, 
and she might see him daily, of a half-jealousy that Glory 
should be nearer still. 

It was quite true that Mr. Armstrong had this wish. 
Hitherto, he had been at the house of the elder minister, 
Mr. Holland. But the three months had expired, — Mr. 
Holland, convinced by continued weakness and the growing 
infirmities of his age that his active labors were ended, had 
offered his resignation of the parochial charge; and this 
having been accepted, a unanimous invitation had been 
giren to Mr. Armstrong by the people to remain among 
them as their settled pastor. This he had not yet con- 
sented to do. But he had entered upon another engage- 
ment of six months, to preach for them. Now he needed 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 179 


a permanent home, which he could not conveniently have at 
Mr. Holland’s. 

There was great putting of heads together at the “ Dor- 
cas,” about it. 

Mrs. Gimp “would offer; but then — there was Serena^ 
and folks would talk.” 

Other families had similar holdbacks, — that is the word, 
for they were not absolute insuperabilities, — wary mothers, 
were waiting until it should appear positively dbcessary that 
somebody should waive objection, and take the homeless 
pastor in ; and each watched keenly for the critical moment 
when it should be just late enough, and not too late, for her 
to yield. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Armstrong quietly left all this seething, 
and walked off out of the village, one day, to Cross Comers, 
and asked Miss Henderson if he might have one of her 
quaint, pleasant, old-fashioned rooms. 

Miss Henderson was deliberating. 

This very afternoon, she sat in, the southwest tea-parlor, 
with her knitting forgotten in her lap, and her eyes search- 
ing the bright western sky, as if for a gleam that should 
light her to decision. 

“ It aint that I mind the trouble. And it aint that there 
is n’t house-room. And it aint that I don’t like the minis- 
ter,” soliloquized she, after a way she had of talking over 
matters to herself when she and the old house were left 
dreaming together. “ It ’s whether it would be respectable 
common sense. I aint going to take the field with the 
Gimps and the Leatherbees, nor to have- them think it, 
eithey. — She ’s over here almost every blessed day of her 
lifg. I might as well try to keep the sunshine out of the 
old house, as to keep her ; and I should be about as likely to 


180 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


want to do one as the other. But just let me take in Mr. 
Armstrong, and there ’d be all the eyes in the village 
wat(.*hing. There could n’t so much as a cat walk in or 
out, but they ’d know it, somehow. And they ’d be sure to 
say she was running after the minister.” 

Miss Henderson’s pronouns were not precise in their 
reference. It isn’t necessary for soliloquy to be exact 
She understood herself, and that sufficed. 

“It’s beTng ridiculous would n’t be any argument. To 
be sure, he ’s old enough to be her — uncle!” This was 
not emphasizing the absurdity quite so strongly or so defi- 
nitely as she intended ; but Aunt Faith’s climaxes broke 
down, unexpectedly, sometimes, just as they culminated, 
because the honest fact fell short Her rhetoric might go 
lame ; but the truth came never halt or maimed from her 
‘ upright handling. 

“It would be a disgrace to the parish, anyhow,” she 
resumed, “ to let those Crimps and Leatherbees get him into 
their net ; and they ’ll do it if Providence or somebody don’t 
interpose. I wish I was sure whether it was a leading or 
not!” 

By-and-by, after a silent revolving, in which her kindly 
inclinations toward the minister, — her memories of long 
time, when that young brother wrote his first sermons in 
the pleasant room she sat in now, — her shrewd reading of 
plans and purposes in others, — her thought for Faith, and 
her calculations about the white hangings with the ball and 
fringe trimmings that must be bleached and put up if Mr. 
Armstrong canie, and how soon they could be ready for 
him, were curiously mixed up and interwoven, — she re- 
verted, at last, as she always did, to that question of^its 
being a “ leading,” or not ; and, taking down the old Bible 


FAITH GARTRET^S GIRLHOOD. 13 


from the corner shelf, she laid it with solemnity on the little 
light-stand at her side, and opened it, as she had known 
her father do, in the important crises of his life, for an 

indication.” 

The wooden saddle and the gun were not all that had 
;ome down to Aunt Faith from the primitive days of the 
Puritan settlers. 

The leaves parted at the story of the Good Samaritan. 
Bible leaves are apt to part, as the heart opens, in accord- 
ance with long habit and holy use. 

That evening, while Glory was washing up the tea-things, 
Aunt Faith put on cloak and hood, and walked over to 
Cross Corners. 

“No — I won’t take off my things,” she replied to Mrs. 
Gartney’s advance of assistance. “ I ’ve just come over to 
tell you what I ’m going to do. I ’ve made up my mind to 
take the minister to board. And when the washing and 
ironing ’s out of the way, next week, I shall fix up a room 
for him, and he ’ll come.” 

“ That’s a capital plan, Aunt Faith ! ” said her nephew, 
with 0 . tone of pleased animation. “ Cross Corners will be 
under obligation to you. Mr. Armstrong is a man whom I 
greatly respect and admire.” 

“ So do I,” said Miss Henderson. “And if I did n’t, 
when a man is beset with thieves all the way from Jerusa- 
lem to Jericho, it’s time for some kind of a Samaritan to 
come along ! ” 

Next day. Mis’ Battis heard the news, and had her word 
of comment to offer. 

“ She’s got room enough for him, if that’s all; but I 
would n’t a believed she ’d have let herself be put about 
and upset so, if it was for J ohn the Baptist ! I always 


16 


182 FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD. 


thouglit she was setter ’n an old hen! But then, she’s 
gittin’ into years, and it ’s kinder handy, I s’pose, havin’ a 
minister round the house, sayin’ she should be took anyways 
sudden ! ” 

Village comments it would he needless to attempt to 
chronicle. 

April days began to wear their tearful beauty, and tho 
southwest room at the old house was given up to Mr. 
Armstrong. 


CHAPTER XX. 


PAUL. 

*• Standing^, with Aluctant feet, 

Where the brook and river meet, 

Womanhood and childhood fleet I ” 

• Longfellow, 

Glory had not been content with the utmost she could 
find to do in making the southwest room as clean, and 
bright, and fresh, and perfect in its appointments as her 
zealous labor and Miss Henderson’s nice, old-fashioned 
methods and materials afibrded possibility for. Twenty 
•times a day, during the few that intervened between its 
fitting up and Mr. Armstrong’s occupation of it, she darted 
in, to settle a festoon of fringe, or to pick a speck from the 
carpet, or to move a chair a hair’s-breadth this way or 
that, or to smooth an invisible crease in the counterpane, 
or, above all, to take a pleased survey of everything once 
more, and to wonder how the minister would like it. 

So well, indeed, he liked it, when he had taken full pos- 
session, that he seemed to divine the favorite room must 
have been relinquished to him, and to scruple at keeping it 
(pite solely to himself. 

In the pleasant afternoons, when the spring sun got 
ound to his westerly windows, and away from the south- 


184 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


east apartment, wliitlier Miss Henderson had betaken her- 
self, her knitting- work, and her Bible, and where now the 
meals were always spread, he would ^pen his door, and let 
the pleasantness stray out across the passage, and into the 
keeping-room, and would often take a book, and come in, 
himself, also, with the sunlight. Then Glory, busy in the 
kitchen, just beyond, would catch words of conversation, or 
of reading, or even be called in to hear the latter. And 
she began to think that there were good times, truly, in this 
world, and that even she was “ in ’em ! ” 

April days, as they lengthened and brightened, brought 
other things, also, to pass. 

The Eushleigh party had returned from Europe. 

Faith had a note from Margaret. . The second wedding 
was close at hand, and would she not come down ? 

But her services as bridesmaid were not needed this 
time ; there was nothing so exceedingly urgent in the invi- 
tation, — Faith’s intimacy was with the Eushleighs, not 
the Livingstons, — that she could not escape its acceptance 
if she desired ; and so — there was a great deal to be done 
in summer preparation, which Mis’ Battis, with her delib- 
erate dignity, would never accomplish alone ; also, there 
was the forget-me-not ring lying in her box of ornaments, 
that gave her a little troubled perplexity as often as she 
saw it there ; and Faith excused herself in a graceful little 
note, and staid at Cross Corners, helping her mother fold 
away the crimson curtains, and get up the white muslin 
ones, make up summer sacks for Hendie, and retouch her 
own simple wardrobe, which this year could receive little 
addition. 

Kind, sisterly fingers helped Hendie now, in his morning 
robings ; and sweet words and pretty stories replaced the 


FAITH GAETNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 185 

old, daunting rLyme ; and there were little, easy, pleasant 
lessons after the rooms were all made nice for the day ; and 
on Sunday there was a special happy walk up over the 
Eidge, when Faith simplified for him and made beautiful 
to his childish comprehension the truth, whatever it might 
have been, that a stronger soul had fed herself with, a few 
hours before. 

Faith was finding work, daily, at her hand, to do. The 
lessons with Glory went on ; and the Bible-class, — Faith’s 
one great, weekly joy, — to which Mr. Armstrong walked 
with them, in the bright, balmy, Sunday mornings, giving 
them beautiful words, or keeping beautiful silence as they 
went, so that, like the disciples, journeying toward Emmaus, 
their hearts burned within them by the way.’’ After the 
Sunday-school, Glory disappeared into her corner seat in 
Miss Henderson’s pew, and when the service in church was 
ended, took her quiet and speedy way home, alone, reaching 
it enough earlier than her mistress to have removed her out- 
side garments, put on a clean calico apron, and begun to 
dish the simple dinner by the time Miss Henderson and 
Mr. Armstrong came in. 

However joyfully and gratefully she might feel herself 
welcomed upon equal ground where all are indeed equal, 
she was never led into any forgetfulness, thereby, of the 
difierence of outward position, and of daily duty. Perhaps 
they whom God in His wise will, may have placed a little 
higher by gift and opportunity, lessen really nothing of 
their height to the eyes of others below, when they reach 
down willing hands to draw them, also, up. 

One day. Aunt Faith had twisted her foot by a slip upon 
the stairs, and was kept at home. Glory, of course, was 
obliged to remain also, as Miss Henderson was confined, 
helpless, to her chair or sofa. 


186 FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD. 


Faith Gartney and the minister walked down the pleas- 
ant lane, and along the quiet road to the village church, 
together. 

Faith had fresh, white ribbons, to-day, upon her simple 
straw bonnet, and delicate flowers and deep green leaves 
about her face. She seemed like an outgrowth of the morn-, 
ing, so purely her sweet look and fair unsulliedness of attire 
reflected and interpreted, as it were, the significance of the 
day’s own newness and beauty. 

“ Do you know,” said Mr. Armstrong, presently, after 
the morning greeting had passed, and they had walked a 
few paces, silently, “do you know that you are one of 
Glory’s saints. Miss Faith ? ” 

“Faith’s wondering eyes looked out their questioning 
astonishment from a deep rosiness that overspread her face. 

The minister was not apt to make remarks of at all a. 
personal bearing. Neither was this allusion to sainthood 
quite to have been looked for, from his lips. Faith could 
scarcely comprehend. • 

“ I found her this morning, as I came out to cross the 
field, sitting on the door-stone with her Bible and a rosary 
of beautiful, small, variously-tinted shells upon her lap. I 
stopped to speak with her, and asked leave to look at them. 

‘ They were given to me when I was very little,’ she said. 

‘ A lady sent them from Eome. The Pope blessed them ! ’ 

‘ They are very beautiful,’ I said, ‘ and a blessing, if that 
mean a true man’s prayer, can never be worthless. But — 
I asked her, ‘ do you use these, Glory? ’ ‘ Not as she did 

once,’ she said. She had almost forgotten about that. She. 
knew the larger beads stood for saints, and the smaller ones 
between were prayers. ‘ But,’ she went on, ‘ it is n’t for 
my prayers I keep them now. I ’ve named some of my 


FAITH GAETHEY^S GIRLHOOD, 187 


saints’ beads for the people that have done me the most 
good in my life, and been the kindest to me ; and the little 
ones are thoughts, and things they ’ve taught me. This 
large one, with the queer spots, is Miss Henderson ; and 
this lovely rose-colored one is Miss Faith ; and these are 
Katie Eyan and Bridget Foye ; but^you don’t know about 
them.’ And then she timidly told me that the white one 
next the cross was mine. The child humbled me. Miss 
Faith ! It is nearly fearful, sometimes, to get a glimpse of 
what one is to some trustful human soul, who looks through 
one toward the Highest ! ” 

Faith had tears in her eyes. 

“Glory is such a strange girl,” said she. “She seems 
to have an instinct for things that other people are educated 
up to.” 

“ She has seized the spirit of the dead Eoman calendar, 
and put it into this rosary. Our saints are the spirits 
through whom God wills to send us of His own. What- 
ever becomes to us a channel of His truth and love we 
must involuntarily canonize and consecrate. Woe, ’ if by 
the same channel ever an offence cometh ! ” 

“I never thought of it before,” said Faith ; “but I don’t 
wonder the Eomans like to believe as they do about the 
saints and the pope. If it only were true that we could 
know exactly into whose hands had come down directly 
what Christ gave to Peter ! ” 

“We know what is better,” said Mr. Armstrong. “We 
know that we can stand by Christ’s side with Peter, and 
receive it to ourselves.” 

Faith’s lips parted eagerly, and then closed again, like 
one afraid to speak. 

“ What is it, my child? ” asked the minister, with a kind 
persuasiveness. 


188 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


Mr. Armstrong! ” said Taith, “you draw me out to say 
things that I wonder, afterward, how I have dared! I sup- 
pose it is wrong — it must he — hut I cannot help thinking, 
sometimes, why our Saviour did not come into the world to 
stay ! It wants him so.” 

“ Does He not stay ? 

“In the way you mean — yes,” replied Faith, gently and 
fearfully. “ But that is so hard for people to helieve and 
rememher.” 

“ I mean as literal a thing as the truth can he. I mean 
that when Christ .said, ‘I am with you to the end of the 
world,’ he only said that which was — which, hy the laws 
of things, could not help being — simply, and without met- 
aphor, true.” 

Faith almost paused in her walk to listen. 

“Events and deeds are not done with in the moment they 
are enacted. Does a sublime instant in history pass hy into 
nothingness, except for the memory that it has been ? God 
is the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. He is not the 
God of the dead, but of the living. . It is only our finiteness 
that compels us to receive in succession, and pass over into 
what we call the past. The past is back again to whatever 
soul, by sympathy, lives keenly in any instant of it. It is 
all God’s Present. We need not say, ‘ Oh, if we had lived 
in the days when Christ walked here upon the earth ! ’ 
We do live wherever we truly find our life. . Christ’s Life 
— every moment of it — is an everlasting Presence in the 
earth. The hem of his garment sweeps to the farthest edge 
of being. He sits at the head of the feast ; and sends the 
cup of blessing down ; and it matters not whether John, 
upon his bosom, or Jude, or James, or Peter, or you and I, 
with what we call the nineteen centuries between, receive 
it. It is one Act — one Gift — forever I ” 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 189 


They were silent, then, again, until they had almost 
reached the church. 

Mr. Armstrong turned to Faith once more, before they 
entered. 

“Eead all the Gospel scenes with that thought. Go 
back into them, and live them. And believe always, that 
if so your soul can go to Christ, across all time, His 
spirit can no less come to you ! ” 

Are these too grave and solemn pages for a story? 
Grave and solemn is our life, also ; and the deep thoughts 
do come, and no narration can be true in fact or purpose, 
which shall leave them out. I do not think the girl of 
eighteen who feels the soul within her, will pass them by 
unread, any more than if a high and earnest spirit, like 
that I seek here to delineate, have ever met her in her 
world, she can have done other than hail it reverently and 
gladly. Thank God, so His truth hath even already spread, 
that no wide circle can be drawn in fact or fancy which 
may not easily include some such ! There is no life so 
frivolous that a holy day is not offered it once in seven. 
Shall we write books that tell of years, and have no Sab- 
baths in them? If I would do this, it would be impossible 
for me to tell the story of Faith’s girlhood truly, and not 
give therein, however faintly and incidentally, something 
of the deeper influences that wrought upon her nature ; nor 
could I speak of this life-friend of hers, and not show him 
as he was, in his daily word and living. 

I'erhaps Faith was nearly the only person in church, to- 
day, who did not notice that there were strangers in the 
* pew behind the Gimps. When she came out, she was joined ; 
and not by strangers. Margaret and Paul Eushleigh came 
eagerly to her side. ^ 


190 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


“We came out to Lakeside to stay a day or two with the 
Morrises ; and ran away from them here, purposely to meet 
you. And we mean to be very good, and go to church all 
day, if you will take us home with you meanwhile.” 

Faith, between her surprise, her pleasure, her embarrass- 
ment, the rush of old remembrance, and a quick, apprehen- 
sive thought of Mis’ Battis and her probable arrangements, 
made almost an awkward matter of her reply. But her 
father and mother came up, welcomed the Eushleighs cor- 
dially, and the five were presently on their way toward Cross 
Corners, and Faith had recovered sufficient self-possession 
to say something beyond mere words of course. 

Paul Eushleigh looked very handsome ! And very glad, 
too, to see shy Faith, who kept as invisible as might be 
at Margaret’s other side, and looked there, in her simple 
spring dress contrasted with Margaret’s rich and fashiona- 
ble, though also simple and lady-like attire, like a field daisy 
beside a garden rose. 

Margaret was charmed with everything. With being at 
Kinnicutt, with the day, with the sermon, with Cross Cor- 
ners, and the house ; most of all, with Faith’s own bright 
chamber, where the blossoming elm-boughs were swaying in 
at the open windows, and with the room below, whither she 
was ushered when bonnet and mantle had been removed, and 
where the door was thrown back that gave out upon the 
grassy slope, fresh with its tender green, and let in the 
breaths of’ budding shrubs and sun-kissed soil. / 

Faith couldn’t help being glad that the warm spring 
noontide allowed and suggested this arrangement. 

“ It’s a little, old house ; ” said she to Miss Eushleigh, 
who was enthusiastically praising each new aspect; “but 
we can let in alUout doors, you see, and that makes it large 
enough.” 


FAITH GARTNETH GIRLHOOD, l[,l 


“ Who wants brick and mortar in the country?” asked 
Margaret, with a disdain of all but what she saw before her. 

Faith remembered, secretly, the winds and sleet of a few 
months back, and their closed doors and snuggery of half a 
house, and doubted whether her friend would quite have 
weathered and endured all this, for the after-joy of May or 
June. We stand, serene, at sunny points in life, and to 
them who smile at seeing us glad say nothing of the interval 
of storms! 

Dinner was of no moment. There was only roast chicken, 
dressed the day before, and reheated and served with hot 
vegetables since their coming in, and a custard-pudding, and 
some pastry-cakes that Faith’s fingers had shaped, and 
coffee ; but they drank in balm and swallowed sunshine, 
and the essence of all that was to be concrete by-and-by in 
fruitful fields and gardens. And they talked of old times ! 
Three years old, nearly ! And Faith and Margaret laughed, 
and Mrs. Gartney listened, and dispensed dinner, or spoke 
gently now and then, and Paul did his cleverest with Mr. 
Gartney, so that the latter gentleman declared afterward 
that “ young Kushleigh was a capital fellow; well posted; 
his father’s million did n’t seem to have spoiled him yet.” 

Altogether, this unexpected visit infused great life at 
Cross Corners. 

Why was it that Faith, when she thought it all over, 
tried to weigh so very nicely just the amount of gladness 
she had felt ; and was dimly conscious of a vague misgiving, 
deep down, lest her father and mother might possibly be a 
little more glad than she was quite ready to have them ? 
What made her especially rejoice that Saidie and the straw- 
berries had not come yet? 

There are certain shadows of feeling so faint, so indefinite, 


192 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


that when we look fully at them, they are no longer there. 
Faith could surely analyze neither her pleasure nor her douht. 

When Paul Eushleigh took her hand at parting, — Faith 
stood, ungloved, on the great door-stone under the elms, 
Paul and Margaret having accompanied her home from 
afternoon church, before setting out on their walk to Lake- 
side, whither they must return, they said, for the Morrises* 
late dinner, — he glanced down, as he did so, at the fair 
little fingers, and then up, inquiringly, at Faith’s face. 
Her eyes fell, and the color rose, till it became an indig- 
nation at itself. She grew hot, for days afterward, many a 
time, as she remembered it. Who has not blushed at the 
self-suspicion of blushing ? 

Who has not blushed at the simple recollection of having 
blushed before ? On Monday, this happened. Faith went 
over to the Old House, to inquire about Aunt Henderson’s 
foot, and to sit with her, if she should wish it, for an hour. 
She chose the hour at which she thought Mr. Armstrong 
usually walked to the village. Somehow, greatly as she 
enjoyed all the minister’s kindly words, and each moment 
of his accidental presence, she had, of late, almost invariably 
taken this time for coming over to see Aunt Faith. A secret 
womanly instinct, only, it was ; waked into no consciousness, 
and but ignorantly aware of its own prompting. 

To-day, however, Mr. Armstrong had not gone out. Some 
writing that he was tempted to do, contrary to his usual 
Monday habit, had detained him within. And so, just as 
Miss Henderson, having given the history of her slip, and 
the untoward wrenching of her foot, and its present con- 
dition, to Faith’s inquiries, asked her suddenly, “if they 
had n’t had some city visitors yesterday, and* what sent 
them flacketting over from Lakeside to church in the vih 


FAITH GAETHFT’S GIRLHOOD, 193 


lage ? ” the minister walked in. If lie had n’t heard, she 
might not have done it; hut, with the abrupt question, 
came, as abruptly, the hot memory of yesterday ; and with 
those other eyes, beside the doubled keenness of Aunt Faith’s 
over her spectacles, upon her, it was so much worse if she 
should, that of course she could n’t help doing it ] She col- 
ored up, and up, till the very roots of her soft hair tingled, 
and a quick shame wrapped her as in a flaming garment. 

The minister saw, and read. Not quite the obvious in» 
ference Faith might fear, — he had a somewhat profounder 
knowledge of nature than that, — but what persuaded him 
there was a thought, at least, between the two who met 
yesterday, more than of a mere chance greeting ; it might 
not lie so much with Faith jas with the other ; yet it had 
the power, — even the consciousness of its unspoken being, 
to send the crimson to her face. What kept the crimson 
there and deepened it, he knew quite well. He knew the 
shame was at having blushed at all. 

Nevertheless, Mr. Armstrong remembered that blush, 
and pondered it, almost as long as Faith herself. In the 
little time that he had felt himself her friend, he had grown 
to recognize so fully, and to prize so dearly, her truth, her 
purity, her high-mindedness, her reverence, that no new 
influence could show itself in her life, without touching his 
solicitous love. Was thi^ young man worthy of a blush 
from Faith ? Was there a height in his nature answering 
to the reach of hers ? Was the quick, impulsive pain that 
came to him in tl^ thought of how much that rose-hue 
of forehead and cheek might mean, an intuition of his 
stronger and more instructed soul of a danger to the child 
that she might not dream ? Be it as it might, Eoger Arm- 
strong pondered. He would also watch. 

17 


CHiVJTEK XXL 


PRESSURE. 

“ To bft warped, unconsciously, by the magnetic influence of all around 
is the destiny, to a certain extent, of even the greatest souls.” 

Oakfield. 

Sometimes there springs up in a quiet life a period when 
all its elements seem fermenting together ; when, emphati- 
cally, in more than the common meaning of the common 
phrase, “ something seems brewing ; ” when all sorts of un- 
expected conjunctures and combinations arise, and amid a 
multitude of strange and unforeseen forces, one is impelled 
forward to some new path. 

It is for Life, — not so much, even, for Death, — that 
we are to be “ready.’' Keady for God’s call, that comes 
to us in an hour when we think not, and demands all the 
strength we should have grown to, to enable us to decide 
and act. Ah ! the many foolish ones, who, with lamps un- 
trimmed, are in no plight to meet the exigence of circum- 
stance, or the flash of opportunity, but are swayed hither 
or thither into ways that were never planned for them in 
God’s projection of their lives, but wherein they stumble, 
or are left, darkly, while His golden moment goes by I 

June came, and Sa'idie Gartney. iNot for flowers, or 
strawberries, merely ; but for father’^ and' mother’s consent 


FAITH GARTHET^S GIRLHOOD. 195 


that, in a few weeks, wken flowers and strawberries skould 
have fully come, there should he a marriage feast made for 
her in the simple home, and she should go forth into the 
gay world again, the bride of a wealthy New York banker. 

Aunt Etherege and Saidie filled the house. With finery, 
with bustle, with important presence. 

Miss Gartney’s engagement had been sudden ; her mar- 
riage was to be speedy. Half-a-dozen seamstresses, and as 
many sewing-machines, were busy in New York, — hands, 
feet, and wheels, — in making up the delicate draperies for 

the trousseau ; and Madame A was frantic with the 

heap of elaborate dresses that was thrust upon her hands, 
and must be ready for the thirtieth. 

Mrs. Gartney and Faith had enough to do, to put the 
house and themselves in festival trim. Hendie was spoiled 
with having no lessons, and more toys and sugar-plums 
than he knew what to do with. Mr. Selmore’s comings 
and goings made special ebullitions, weekly, where was 
only a continuous lesser effervescence before. Mis’ Battis 
had not been able to subside into an arm-chair since the 
last day of May. 

Faith found great favor in the eyes of her brother-in-law 
elect. He pronounced her a “ naive, piquante little person,” 
and already there was talk of how pleasant it would be, to 
have her in Madison Square, and show her to the world. 
Faith said nothing to this, but in her heart she clung to 
Kinnicutt. 

Glory thought Miss Gartney wonderful. Even Mr. Arm- 
strong spoke to Aunt Faith of the striking beauty of her 
elder niece. 

“ I don’t kno^ h^ she does look,” Aunt Faith replied, 
with all her anqient grjiffness. “I see a great show of 


196 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


flounces, and manners, and hair ; hut they don’t look as if 
they all grew, natural. I can’t make her out, amongst all 
that. Now, Faith ’s just Faith. You see her prettiriesa 
the minute you look at her, as you do a flower’s.” 

“ There are not many like Miss Faith,” replied Mr. 
Armstrong. “I never knew hut one other who wore s^ 
the fresh, pure heauty of God’s giving.” 

Hii voice was low and quiet, and his eye looked afar, as 
he spcke. 

Glory went away, and sat down on the door-stone. There 
was a strange tumult at her heart. In the midst, a nohle 
joy. About it, a disquietude, as of one who feels shut out, 
— alone. 

“ I don’t know what ails me. I wonder if I aint glad ! 
Of course, it ’s nothing to me. I aint in it. But it must 
he beautiful to he so ! And to have such words said 1 She 
don’t know what a sight the minister thinks of her! 1 
know. I knew before. It’s beautiful — hut I aint in it. 
Only, I think I ’ve got the feeling of it all. And I ’m glad 
it ’s real, somewhere. Some way, I seem to have so much 
here, that never grows out into anything. Maybe I ’d he 
beautiful if it did 1 ” 

So talked Glory, interjectionMly, with herself. 

In the midst of these excited days, there came two letters 
to Mr. Gartney. 

One was from a gentleman in Michigan, in relation te 
some land Mr. Gartney owned there, taken years ago, at a 
very low valuation, for a debt. This was likely, from the 
rapid growth and improvement in the neighiDorhood, to be- 
come, within a few years, perhaps, a property of some im- 
portance. 

“By-and-by,” said he to his wife, to whom he had 


FAITH GARTHET^S GIRLHOOD. 197 


handed the letter across the table for perusal, “I must 
try and get out there, and look up that Owasso farm of 
mine.” 

The other letter was from his son, James Gartney, in 
San Francisco. The young man urged his father to con- 
sider whether it might not be a good idea for him to come 
out and join him in California. “You are well out of 
business, there,” he wrote’, “ and when you begin to feel 
like trying something again, why not come round ? There 
is always plenty to be done here, and the climate would 
just suit you. That, and the voyage, would set you up, 
right off.” 

Mr. Gartney, by his year of comparative rest, and country 
air and living, had gained strength that he began to be 
impatient, now, to use. An invalid’s first vigor is like a 
school-boy’s coin, that “burns in his pocket.” He is in a 
wonderful hurry to do something with it. Mrs. Gartney 
saw that Cross Corners would not limit him long, and 
began to feel her old anxiety creeping up, lest he should 
rush, impulsively, into risk and excitement and worry 
again. 

James Gartney’s proposal evidently roused his attention. 
It was a great deal to think of, certainly ; but it was worth 
thinking of, too. James had married in San Francisco, 
had a pleasant home there, and was prospering. Many old 
business friends had gone from Mishaumok, in the years 
when the great flood of enterprise set westward across the 
continent, and were building up name and influence in the 
Golden Land. The idea found a place in his brain, and 
clung there. Only, there was Faith! But things might 
come round so that even this thought need be no hindrance 
to the scheme. 


17 * 


198 FAITH GAETNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


Changes, and plans, and interests, and influences were 
gathering ; all to bear down upon one young life. 

“ More news ! ” said Mr. Gartney, one morning, coming 
in from his walk to the village post-ofllce, to the pleasant 
sitting-room, or morning-room, as Mrs. Etherege and Saidie 
called it, where Faith vas helping her sister write a list 
of the hundreds who were to receive Mr. and Mrs. Scl- 
more^s cards, — “At Home, in September, in Madison 
Sq[uare.” “ Whom do you think I met in the village, this 
morning ? ” 

Everybody looked up, and everybody’s imagination took 
a discursive leap among possibilities, and then everybody, 
of course, asked “ Whom ? ” 

“ Old Jacob Eushleigh, himself. He has taken a house 
at Lakeside, for the summer. And he has bought the new 
mills just over the river. That is to give young Paul 
something to do, I imagine. Kinnicutt has begun to 
grow ; and when places or people once take a start, there ’s 
no knowing what they may come to. Here ’s something 
for you, Faithie, that I dare say tells all about it.” 

And he tossed over her shoulder, upon the table, a letter, 
bearing her name, in Margaret Eushleigh’s chirograph, upon 
the cover. 

Faith’s head was bent over the list she was writing; but 
the vexatious color, feeling itself shielded in her face, crept 
round till it made her ear-tips rosy. Saidie put out her 
forefinger, with a hardly perceptible motion, at the tell- 
tale sign, and nodded at Aunt Etherege behind her sister’s 
back. * 

Aunt Etherege looked bland and sagacious. 

Up stairs, a little after, these sentences were spoken in 
Saidie’ s room. 


FAITH GABTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 199 


“ Of course it will be,” said tbe younger to tbe elder 
lady. “ It ’s been going on ever since they were children. 
Taitb hasn’t a right to say no, now. And what else 
brought him, up here after houses and mills ? ” 

“ I don’t see that the houses and mills were necessary 
to the object. Eather cumbersome and costly machinery, 
I should think, to bring to bear upon such a simple pur- 
pose.” 

“ Oh, the business plan is something that has come up 
accidentally, no doubt. Eunning after one thing, people 
very often stumble upon another. But it will all play in 
together, you ’ll see. Only, I ’m afraid I shan’t have the 
glory of introducing Eaithie in New York ! ” 

“It would be as good a thing as possible. And I can 
perceive that your father and mother count upon it, also. 
In their situation what a great relief it would be! Of 
course, Henderson never could do so mad a thing as take 
the child up by the roots, again, and transplant her to San 
Francisco I And I see plainly he has got that in his own 
head.” 

A door across the passage at this moment shut, softly, 
but securely. 

Behind it, in her low chair by her sewing-table, sat the 
young sister whose fate hhd been so lightly decreed. 

Was it all just so, as Saidie had said? Had she no 
longer a right to say no? Only themselves know how 
easily, how almost inevitably, young judgments and con- 
sciences are drawn on in the track beaten down for them 
by others. Many and many a life-decision has been made, 
through this taking for granted that bears with its mute, 
but magnetic power, upon the shyness and irresolution that 
can scarcely face and interpret its own wish or will. 


200 FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD, 


It was very true, tliat, as Saidie Gartney had said, “this 
had been going on for years.” For years, Faith had found 
great pleasantness in the companionship and evident prefer- 
ence of Paul Eushleigh. There had been nobody to com- 
pare with him in her young set in Mishaumok. She knew 
he liked her. She had been proud of it. The girlish 
fancy, that may be forgotten in after years, or may, fos- 
tered by circumstance, endure and grow into a calm and 
happy wifehood, had been given to him. And what troubled 
her now? Was it that always, when the decisive moment 
approaches, there is a little revulsion of timid feminine 
feeling, even amid the truest joy? Or was it that a new 
wine had been given into Faith’s life, which would not be 
held in the old bottles? Was she uncertain — inconstant; 
or had she spiritually outgrown her old attachment? Or, 
was she bewildered, now, out of the discernment of what 
Was still her heart’s desire and need ? 

Paul was kind, and true, and manly. She recognized 
all this in him as surely as ever. If he had turned from, 
and forgotten her, she would have felt a pang. What was 
this, then, that she felt, as he came near, and nearer ? 

And then, her father ! Had he really begun to count 
on this? Do men know how their young daughters feel 
when the first suggestion comes that they are not regarded 
as born for perpetual daughterhood in the father’s house? 
Would she even encumber his plans, if she clung still to 
her maidenly life ? 

By all these subtleties does the destiny of woman close 
in upon her. 

]\Iargaret Eushleigh’s letter was full of delight, and 
eagerness, and anticipation. She and Paul had been so 
charmed with Kinnicutt and Lakeside ; and there had hap- 


FAITH GAETNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 201 


pened to be a furnisbed house to let for the season close 
by the Morrises, and they had persuaded papa to take it. 
Ihey were tired of the sea-shore, and Conway was* getting 
crowded to death. They wanted a real summer in the 
country. And then this had turned up about the mills ! 
Perhaps, now, her. father would buildf and they should 
come up every year. Perhaps Paul would stay altogether, 
and superintend. Perhaps — anything ! It was all a de- 
lightful chaos of possibilities ; with this thing certain, that 
she and Faith would be together for the next four months 
in the glorious summer shine and bloom. 

Miss Gartney’s wedding was simple. The stateliness 
and show were all reserved for Madison Square. 

Mr. Armstrong pronounced the solemn words, in the 
shaded summer parlor, with the door open into the sweeter 
and stiller shade without. 

Faith stood by her sister’s side, in fair, white robes, and 
Mr. Eobert Selmore was groomsman to his brother. A few 
especial friends from Mishaumok and Lakeside were present 
to witness the ceremony. 

And then there was a kissing, — a hand- shaking, — a 
well-wishing, — a going out to the simple but elegantly 
arranged collation, — a disappearance of the bride to put 
on travelling array, — a carriage at the door, — smiles, 
tears, and good-byes, — Mr., Mrs., and Mr. Eobert Sel- 
more were off to meet the W estern train, — and all was 
over. 

Mrs. Etherege B^mained a few days longer at Cross Cor- 
ners. As Mis’ Battis judiciously remarked, “ after a wed- 
din’ or a funeral, there ought to be somebody to stay awhile 
and cheer up the mourners.” 

This visit, that had been so full of happenings, was t<» 


202 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 

have a strange occurrence still to mark it, before all fell 
again into the usual order. 

Aunt Etherege was to go on Thursday? On Wednesday, 
the three ladies sat together in the cool, open parlor, where 
Mr. Armstrong, walking over from the Old House, had 
joined them. He the July number of the “ Mishau- 
mok ” in his hand, and a finger between the fresh-cut leaves 
at a poem ho would read them. 

Just as he finished the last stanza, amid a hush of the 
room that paid tribute to the beauty of the lines and his 
perfect rendering of them, wheels came round from the 
high road into the lane. 

“ It is Mr. Gartney come back from Sedgely,” said Aunt 
Etherege, looking from her window, between the blinds. 
“ Whom on earth has he picked up to bring with him ? ” 

A thin, angular figure of a woman, destitute of crino- 
line, wearing big boots, and a bonnet that ignored the 
fashion, and carrying in her hand a black enamelled leather 
bag, was alighting as she spoke, at the gate. 

“ Mother ! ” said Faith, leaning forward, and glancing 
out, also, “it looks like — it is — Nurse Sampson!” 

And she put her work hastily from her lap, and rose to 
go out at the side door, to meet and welcome her. 

To do this, she had to pass by Mr. Armstrong. How 
came that rigid look, that deadly paleness, to his face? 
What spasm of pain made him clutch the pamphlet he held 
with fingers that grew white about the nails ? 

Faith stopped, startled. 

“Mr. Armstrong! Are you not well?” said she. At 
the same instant of her pausing, Miss Sampson entered 
from the hall, behind her. Mr. Armstrong’s eye, lifted 
toward Faith .in an attempt to reply, caught a glimpse of 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 203 

the sharp, pronounced outlines of the nurse’s face. Before 
Paith could comprehend, or turn, or cry out, the paleness 
blanched ghastlier over his features, and the strong man 
fell back, fainting. 

With quick, professional instinct. Miss Sampson sprang 
forward, seizing, as she did so, an ice-water pitcher from 
the table. 

“ There, take this!” said she to Faith, “and sprinkle him 
with it, while I loosen his neckcloth! — Gracious goodness!” 
she exclaimed, in an altered tone, as she came nearer to him 
for this purpose, “ do it, some of the rest of you, and let me 
get out of his way ! It was me ! ” 

And she vanished out of the room. 


CHAPTEE XXn. 


BOGER Armstrong’s story. 

*• JSven by means of our sorrows, we belong to the Eternal Plan,” 

Humboldt. 

“ Go in* there,” said Nurse Sampson to Mr. Gartney, 
calling him in from the porch, “ and lay that man flat on 
the floor ! ” 

Which Mr. Gartney did, wondering, vaguely, in the 
instant required for his transit to the apartment, whether 
bandit or lunatic might await his offices. 

All happened in a moment; and in that moment, the 
minister’s fugitive senses began to return. 

“ Lie quiet, a minute. Faith, get a glass of wine, or a 
little brandy.” 

Faith quickly brought both ; and Mr. Armstrong, whom 
her father now assisted to the arm-chair again, took the 
wine from her hand, with a smile that thanked her, and 
deprecated himself. 

“ I am not ill,” he said. " It is all over now. It was 
the sudden shock. I did not think I could have been so 
weak.” 

Mrs. Gartney had gone to find some hartshorn. Mrs. 
Etherege, seeing that the need for it was passing, went out 
to tell her sister so, and to ask the strange woman who had 


FAITH GAUTFEY^S GIRLHOOD. 205 


originated all the commotion, -what it could possibly mean. 
Mr. Gartney, at the same instant, caught a glimpse of his 
horse, which he had left unfastened at the gate, giving 
indications of restlessness, and hastened out to tie him, and 
to call Luther, whom he had been awaiting when Miss 
Sampson hailed him at the door. 

Faith and Mr. Armstrong were left alone. 

“ Did I frighten you, my child? ” he asked, gently. “ It 
was a strange thing to happen ! I thought that woman 
was in her grave. I thought she died, when — . I will 
tell you all about it some day, soon. Miss Faith. It was 
the sad, terrible page of my life.” 

Faith’s eyes were lustrous with sympathy. Under all 
other thought was a beating joy, — not looked at yet, — 
that he could speak to her so ! That he could snatch this 
chance moment to tell her, only, of his sacred sorrow ! 

She moved a half-step nearer, and laid her hand, softly, 
on the chair-arm beside him. She did not touch so much 
as a fold of his sleeve ; but it seemed, somehow, like a 
pitying caress. 

I am sorry ! ” said she. And then the others came in. 

Mr. Gartney walked round with his friend to the old 
house. 

Miss. Sampson began to recount what she knew of the 
story. Faith escaped to her own room at the first sen- 
tence. She would rather have it as Mr, Armstrong’s con- 
fidence. 

Next morning. Faith was dusting, and arranging fiowers 
in the east parlor, and had just set the “ hill-side door,” as 
they called it, open, when Mr. Armstrong passed the win- 
dow and appeared thereat. ^ 

“ I came to ask. Miss Faith, if you would walk up over 
18 


206 FAITH GARTNEYH GIRLHOOD. 


the Ridge. It is a lovely morning, and I am selfish 
enough to wish to have you to myself for a little of it. 
By-and-by, I would like to come back, and see Miss Samp- 
son.” 

^ Faith understood. He meant to tell her this that had 
been heavy upon his heart through all these*years. She 
would go. Directly, when she had brought her hat, and 
spoken with her mother. 

Mrs. Etherege and Mrs. Gartney were sitting together 
in the guest-chamber, above. At noon, after an early din- 
ner, Mrs. Etherege was to leave. 

Mr. Armstrong stood upon the door-stone below, looking 
outward, waiting. If he had been inside the room, he 
would not have heard. The ladies, sitting by the window, 
just over his head, were quite unaware and thoughtless of 
his possible position. 

He caught Faith’s clear, sweet accent first, as she an- 
nounced her purpose to her mother, adding, — 

“ I shall be back, auntie, long befor#" dinner.” 

Then she crossed the hall into her own room, made her 
slight preparation for the walk, and went down by the 
kitchen staircase, to give Parthenia some last word about 
the early dinner. 

“I think,” said Mrs. Etherege, in the keenness, of her 
worldly wisdom, “that this minister of yours might as well 
have a hint of how matters stand. It seems to me he is 
growing to monopolize Faith, rather.” 

“Oh,” replied Mrs. Gartney, “there is nothing of that! 
You know what nurse told us, last evening. It is n’t quite 
likely that a man would faint away at the memory of one 
woman, if his thoughts were turned, the least, in that way, 
upon another. No, indeefi She is his Sunday scholar, 


FAITH GAHTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


207 


and he treats her always as a very dear younff friend. But 
that is all.” 

“ Maybe. But is it quite safe for her ? He is a young 
man yet, notwithstanding those few gray hairs.” 

“ Oh, Faith has tacitly belonged to Paul Eushleigh these 
three years ! ” 

Mr. Armstrong heard it all. He turned the next moment, 
and met his “dear young friend” with the same gentle smile 
and manner that he always wore toward her, and they walked 
up the Eidge-path, among the trees, together. 

No landscape gardener could have planned so beautiful 
an illusion as Nature had made here behind the house at 
Cross Corners. 

This natural ridge, — that sloped up from the lane in a 
bank along one side, and on the other sunk down into a 
hollow, beyond which were the cornfields and potato- 
, patches, — crowned and clad with wild shrubbery and trees, 
ended like a sloping promontory that melted down into the 
level, scarcely a rod beyond the “ hill-side door.” 

Over the cool, grassy path, — up among the lilacs and 
evergreens, and barberries, — until they were shut in upon 
the crest, by the verdure and the blue, — they kept on, in 
a silence wherein their spirits felt each other, and could 
wait for words. 

A boulder of rock, scooped into smooth hollows that 
made pleasant seats, was the goal, usually, of the Eidge- 
walk. Here Faith paused, and Mr. Armstrong made her 
sit down and rest. 

Standing there before her, he began his story. 

“ One summer, — years ago,” — he said, “ I went to the 
city of New Orleans. I went tb bring thence, with me, a 
dear friend — her who was to have been my wife.” 


208 FAITH GAFTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


The deep voice trembled, and paused. Faith could not 
look up, her breath came quickly, and the tears were all 
but ready. 

“ She had been there, through the winter and spring, 
with her father, who, save myself, was the only near friend 
she had in all the world., 

“ The business which took him there detained him until 
later in the season than Northerners ara accustomed to feel 
safe in staying. And still, important affairs hindered his 
departure. 

“ He wrote to me, that, for himself, he must risk a resi- 
dence there for some weeks yet ; but that his daughter 
must be placed in safety. There was every indication of a 
sickly summer. She knew nothing of his writing, and he 
feared would hardly consent to leave him. But, if I came, 
she would yield to me. Our marriage might take place 
there, and I could bring her home. Without her, he said, 
he could more quickly despatch what remained for him to 
do ; and I must persuade her of this, and that it was for 
the safety of all that she should so fulfil the promise which 
was to have been at this time redeemed, had their earlier 
return been possible. 

“In the New Orleans papers that came by the same 
mail, were paragraphs of deadly significance. The very 
cautiousness with which they were worded weighted them 
the more. 

“ Miss Faith ! my friend ! ” — and, as Eoger Armstrong 
spoke, the strong right hand clutched, with a nervous 
grasp of pain, the bole of a young tree by which he stood, 
— “in that city of pestilence, was my life ! Night and 
day I journeyed, till I reaped the place. I found the ad- 
dress which had been sent me, — there were only strangers 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD.. 209 


there ! Mr. Waldo had heen, hut the very day before, 
seized with the fatal endemic, and removed to a fever- 
hospital. Miriam had refused to leave him, and had gone 
with him, — into plague and death ! 

“ Was I wrong, child? Could I have helped it? I fol- 
lowed. Ah ! God lets strange woes, most fearful horrors, 
into this world of His ! I cannot tell you, if I would, what 
I saw there ! Pestilence — death — corruption ! 

“ In the midst of all, among the gentle sisters of charity, 
I found a New England woman, — a nurse, — her whom I 
met yesterday. She came to me on my inquiry for Mr, 
Waldo. He was dead. Miriam had already sickened, — 
was past hope. I could not see her. It was against the 
rule. She "^^ould not know me. 

“ I only remember that I refused to be sent away.. I 
think my brain reeled with the weariness of sleepless nights 
and the horror of the shock. 

“ I cannot dwell upon the story. ' It was ended quickly. 
When I struggled back, painfully, to life, from the disease 
that struck me, too, down, there were strange faces round 
me, and none could even tell me of her last hours. The 
nurse, — Miss Sampson, — had been smitten — was dying. 

“ They sent me to a hospital for convalescents. Weeks 
after, I came out, feeble and hopeless, into my lonely life ! 

“ Since then, God, who had taken from me the object I 
had set for myself, has filled its room with His own work. 
And, doing it. He has not denied me to find many a chas- 
tened joy. 

“ Dear, young friend ! ” said he, with a tender, lingering 
emphasis, — it was all he could say then, — all they had 
left him to say, if he would, — “I have told you this, 
because you have come nearer into my sympathies than any 
18 * 


210 JFAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


in all these years that have been my years of strangerhood 
and sorrow ! You have made me think, in your fresh, maid- 
enly life, and your soul-earnestness, of Miriam ! 

“ When your way broadens out into busy sunshine, and 
mine lies otherwhere, do not forget me ! ” 

A solemn baptism of mingled grief and joy seemed to 
touch the soul of Faith. One hand covered her face, that 
was bowed down, weeping. The other lay in her compan- 
ion’s, who had taken it as he uttered these last words. So 
it rested a moment, and then its fellow came to it, and, be- 
tween the two, held Roger Armstrong’s reverently, while the 
fair, tearful face lifted itself to his. 

“ I do thank you so ! ” And that was all. 

Faith was his “ dear, young friend ! ” How the words in 
which her mother limited his thoughts of her to common- 
place, widened, when she spoke them to herself, into a great 
beatitude ! She never thought of more, — scarcely whether 
more could be. This great, noble, purified, God-loving 
soul that stood between her and heaven, like the mountain- 
peak, bathing its head in clouds, and drawing lightnings 
down, leaned over her, and blessed her thus ! 

He had even likened her to Miriam. He had made her 
nearest, next to her. However their difiering paths might 
lie, he had begged her to remember him. What could 
happen to her that should take away this joy? She was 
strong for all life, all duty, henceforth. 

She never suspected her own heart, even when the re- 
membrance of Paul came up and took a tenderness from the 
thought how he, too, might love, and learn from, this her 
friend. She turned back with a new gentleness to all other 
love, as one does from a prayer I 


CHAPTEE XXIIL 


QUESTION AND ANSWER. 


“ Unlftss you can swear, ‘ For life, for death ! ’ 

Oh, fear to call it loving I ” 

Mrs. Rrownino, 

Faith sent Xurse Sampson in to talk- witk Mr. Arm- 
strong. Then he learned all that he had longed to know, 
hut had never known before ; that which took him to his 
lost bride’s death-bed, and awoke out of the silent years 
for him a moment refused to him in its passing. 

Miss Sampson came from her hour’s interview, with an 
unbending of the hard lines of her fiice, and a softness, 
even, in her eyes, that told of tears. 

“ If ever there was an angel that went walking about in 
black broadcloth, that man is the one,” said she. 

And that was all she would say. 

“I’m staying,” she explained, in answer to their enqui- 
ries, “ with a half-sister of mine at Sedgely. Mrs. Crabe, 
the blacksmith’s wife. You see, I ’d got run down, and had 
to take a rest. Eesting is as much a part of work as doing, 
when it ’s necessary. I had a chance to go to Europe, with 
an invaleed lady ; but I allers hate such half-way contriv- 
ances. I either want to work with all my might, or be lazy 
with all my might. And so I ’ve come here to do nothing, 
as hard as ever T can.” 


212 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


“I know well enongk,” ske said again, afterward, “that 
something ’s being cut out for me, tougher ’n anything I ’ve 
had yet. I never had an hour’s extra rest in my life, but 
I found out, precious soon, what it had been sent for. I ’m 
going to stay on all summer, as the doctor told me to ; but 
I’m getting strong, already; and I shall be just like a 
tiger before the year ’s out. And then it ’ll come, whatever 
it is. You ’ll see.” 

Miss Sampson staid until the next day after, and then 
Mr. Gartney drove her back to Sedgely. 

In those days it came to pass that Glory found she had 
a “ follower.” 

Luther Goodell, who “ did round ” at Cross Corners, got 
so into the way of straying up the field-path, in his noon- 
ing hours, and after chores were done at night, that Miss 
Henderson at last, in her plain, outright fashion, took the 
subject up, and questioned Glory. 

“If it means anything, and you mean it shall mean any- 
thing, well and good. I shall put up with it ; though what 
anybody wants with men-folks cluttering round, is more 
than I can understand. , But, if you don’t want him, he 
shan’t come. So tell me the truth, child. Yes, or no. Have 
you any notion of him for a husband? ” 

Glory blushed her brightest at these words ; but there 
was no falling of the eye, or faltering of the voice, as she 
spoke with answering straightforwardness and simplicity. 

“ No ma’am. I don’t think I shall ever have a husband.” 

“No ma’am’s enough. The rest you don’t know anything 
about. Most likely you will.” 

“ I should n’t want anybody, ma’am, that would be likely 
to want me.” 

A.nd G'lory walked out into the milk-fbpm with the pans 
she had been scalding. 


FAITH GAETNET^S GIRLHOOD. ■ 213 


It was true. This woman-child would go all through life 
as she had begun ; discerning always, and reaching spiritu- 
ally after, that which was beyond ; which in that “ kingdom 
of heaven ” was hers already ; but which to earthly having 
and holding should never come. 

Grod puts such souls, oftener than we think, into such life. 
These are His vestals. 

Miss Henderson’s foot had not grown perfectly strong. 
She, herself, said, coolly, that she never expected it to. More 
than that, she supposed, now she had begun, she should 
keep on going to pieces. 

“ An old life,” she said, “ is just like old cloth when it 
begins to tear. It T1 soon go into the rag-bag, and then to 
the mill that grinds all up, and brings us out new and white 
again ! ” 

“Glory McWhirk,” said she, on another day after, “if 
you could do just the thing you would like best to do, what 
would it be ? ” 

“To-day, ma’am? or any time?” asked Glory, puzzled 
as to how much her mistress’s question included. 

“ Ever. If you had a home to live in, say, and money 
to spend?” 

Glory had to wait a moment before she could so grasp 
such an extraordinary hypothesis as to reply. 

“Well?” said Miss Henderson, with slight impa- 
tience. 

“ If I had, — I should like best to find some little chil- 
dren, without any fathers or mothers, as I was, and dress 
them up, as you did me, and curl their hair, and make a 
real good time for them, eveiy day ! ” 

“ You would ! Well, that’s all. I was curious to know 
what you ’d say. I guess those beans in the oven want more 
hot water.” 


2U FAITH GARTNEY’S GIRLHOOD. 


The Eushleighs had come to Lakeside. Every day, nearly, 
saw Paul, or Margaret, or botli, at Cross Corners. 

Faith led them through her beautiful wood-walks ; they 
strolled away for whole mornings, and made little picnics ; 
not deigning to come back to damask table-cloths and reg- 
ular dinners ; Paul read them beautiful poems, and whole 
chapters out of new and charming* books, and sang wild 
ballads, and climbed impossible places to get Faith all the 
farthest off and fairest wild flowers. 

Faith was often, also, at Lakeside. 

Old Mr. Kushleigh treated her with a benignant father- 
liness, and looked upon her with an evident fondness and 
pride that threw heavy weight in the scale of his son’s 
chances. And Madam Eushleigh, as she began to be 
called, since Mrs. Philip had entered the family, petted 
her in tjie old, graceful, gracious fashion ; and Margaret 
loved her, simply, and from her heart. 

There was nothing she could break away from, if she 
had wished ; there was everything that bound and multi- 
plied the fine, invisible network about her fancy and her 
will. 

With Paul himself, it had not been as in the days of 
bouquets, and “ Germans,” and bridal association in Mish- 
aumok. They werb all living and enjoying together a 
beautiful idyl. Nothing seemed special, — nothing was 
embarrassing. 

Faith thought, in these days, that she was very happy. 

Mr. Armstrong relinquished her, almost imperceptibly, 
to her younger friends. In the pleasant twilights, though, 
when her day’s pleasures and occupations were ended, he 
would often come over, as of old, and sit with them in the 
summer parlor, or under the elms. 


FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD, 2l5 


Or Eaitli would go up the beautiful Eidge-walk with 
him ; and he would have a thought for her that was higher 
than any she could reach, by herself, or with the help of 
any other human soul. 

And so, — her best nature fe(b — no want left craving 
and unfilled, — she. hardly knew what it was that made 
her so utterly content ; but the brightness of her life, like 
that of day, seemed to come from all around, overflowing 
upon her from the whole illumined world. 

And the minister ? How did his world look to him ? 
Perhaps, as if clouds that had parted, sending a sunbeam 
across from the west upon the dark sorrow of the morning, 
had shut again, inexorably, leaving him still to tread the 
nightward path under the old, leaden sky. 

A day came, that set him thinking of all this — of the 
years that were past, of those that might be to come. 

Mr. Armstrong was not quite so old as he had been rep- 
resented. A man cannot go through plague and anguish, 
as he had done, and “ keep,” as Nurse Sampson had said, 
long ago, of women, “ the baby face on.” There were 
lines about brow and mouth, and gleams in the hair, that 
seldom come so early. 

This day he completed one-and-thirty years. 

The same day, last month, had been Faith’s birthday. 
She was nineteen. 

Roger Armstrong thought of the two tog'ether. 

He thought of these twelve years that lay between them. 
Of the love, — the loss, — the stern and bitter struggle, — 
the divine amends and holy hope that they had brought to 
him ; and then of the innocent girl-life she had been living 
in them ; then, how the two paths had met so, in these last 
few, beautiful months. 


216 FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD, 


Whitlier, and how far apart, trended they now ? 

He could not see. He waited, — leaving the end with 
God. 

A few weeks went by, in this careless, holiday fashion, 
with Faith and her friends ; and then came the hour when 
she must face the truth for herself and for another, and 
speak the word of destiny for both. 

She had made a promise for a drive round the Pond 
Road. Margaret and her brother were to come for her, and 
to return to Cross Corners for tea. 

At the hour fixed, she sat, waiting, under the elms, hat 
and mantle on, and whiling the moments of delay with a 
new book Mr. Armstrong had lent her. 

Presently, the Eushleighs’ light, open, single-seated wagon 
drove up. 

Paul had come alone. 

Margaret had a headache, but thought that after sun- 
• down she might feel better, and begged that Faith would 
reverse the plan agreed upon, and let Paul bring her home 
to tea-with them. 

Paul took for granted that Faith would keep to her en- 
gagement with himself. It was difficult to refuse. She 
was ready, waiting. It would be absurd to draw back, 
sensitively, now, she thought. Besides, it would be very 
pleasant ; and why should she be afraid ? Yet she wished, 
very regretfully, that Margaret were there. 

She shrank from tete-d-tetes, — from anything that might 
help to precipitate a moment she felt herself not quite ready 
for. 

She supposed she did care for Paul Bushleigh as most 
girls cared for lovers; that she had given him reason to 
expect she should ; she felt, instinctively, whither all this 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 217 


pleased acquiescence of father and mother, and this warm 
welcome and encouragement at Lakeside, tended ; and she 
had a dim prescience of what must, some time, come of it ; 
but that was all in the far-off hy-and-by. She would not 
look at it yet. She was quite happy and content in this 
bright summer-life of the present. Why should people 
want to hurry her on to more ? 

There is much that is apparently inconsistent in the vary- 
ing moods of young girls, to whom their own wishes are, as 
yet, a mystery. 

If Faith felt, ordinarily, a blithe content, there were mo- 
ments, nevertheless, when she was afraid. 

She was afraid, now, as she let Paul help her into the 
wagon, and take his place at her side. 

She had been frightened by a word of her mother’s, when 
she had gone to her, before leaving, to tell how the plan 
had been altered, and ask if she had better do as was wished 
of her. 

Mrs. Gartney had assented with a smile, and a Cer- 
tainly, if you like it. Faith ; indeed, I don’t see how you 
can very well help it ; only — ” 

“Only what, mother?” asked Faith, a little fearfully. 

“Nothing, dear,” answered her mother, turning to her 
with a little caress. But she had a look in her eyes that 
mothers wear when they begin to see their last woman’s 
sacrifice demand itself at their hands. 

“ Go, darling. Paul is waiting.” 

It was like giving her away. 

So they drove down, through by-ways, among the lanes, 
toward the Wachaug road. 

Summer was in her perfect fiush and fulness of splen- 
dor. The smell of new-mown hay was in the air. 

19 


218 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


As they came upon the river, they saw the workmen busy 
in and about the new mills. Mr. Bushleigh’s buggy stood 
by the fence ; and he was there, among his mechanics, with 
his straw hat and seer-sucker coat on, inspecting and giving 
orders. 

“ What a capital old fellow the governor is ! ” said Paul, 
in the fashion young men use, now-a-days, to utter their 
affections. 

“ Do you know he means to set me up in these mills he 
is making such a hobby of, and give me half the profits ? ” 

Faith had not known. She thought him very good. 

“Yes; he would do anything, I believe, for me, — or 
anybody I cared for.” 

Faith was silent ; and the strange fear came up in heai*t 
and throat. 

“ I like Kinnicutt, thoroughly.” 

“ Yes,” said Faith. “ It is very beautiful here.” 

“Not only that. I like the people. I like their simple 
fashions. One gQ^ts at human life and human nature here. 
I don’t think I was ever, at heart, a city boy. I don’t like 
living at arm’s-length from everybody. People come close 
together, in the country. And — Faith! what a minister 
you ’ve got here 1 What a sermon that was he preached 
last Sunday 1 I ’ve never been what you might call one of 
the serious sort ; but such a sermon as that must do anybody 
good.” 

Faith felt a warmth toward Paul as he sarid this, which 
was more a drawing of the heart than he had gained from 
her by all the rest. 

“ My father says he will keep him here, if money can do 
it. He never goes to church at Lakeside, now. It needs 
just such a man among mill- villages like these,, he say a 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 219 


My father thinks a great deal of his work-people. He says 
nobody ought to bring families together, and build up a 
neighborhood, as a manufacturer does, and not look out for 
more than the money. I think he ’ll expect a great deal of 
me, if he leaves me here, at the head of it all. More than 
I can ever do, by myself.” 

“ Mr. Armstrong will be thc\ery best help to you,” said 
Faith. “I think he means to stay. I’m sure Kinnicutt 
would seem nothing without him, now.” 

They were in the Pond Eoad. At this moment, they 
were passing a bend, where a great elm leaned ever from 
the wood-side, and on the bank, opposite, lay a mossy log. 
Here some child had sat down to rest, and left a handful 
of wild flowers, that were fading there. 

Faith carried, through all her life, a daguerreotype of 
this little scene, to its minutest detail, flashed upon her 
soul by these next words that were spoken, as they passed 
slowly by. 

“ Faith ! Will you help me to make a home here ? ” 

She could not speak. A great shock had fallen upon 
her whole nature, as if a thunder-bolt she had had present- 
iment of, burst, warningless, from a clear blue sky. 

They drove on for minutes, without another word. 

“ Faith ! You don’t answer me. Must I take silence as 
I please? It can’t be that you don’t care for me ! ” 

“No, no ! ” cried Faith, desperately, like one struggling 
for voice through a nightmare. “ I do care. But — Paul ! 
I don’t know ! I can’t tell. Let me wait, please. Let me 
think.” 

“As long as you like, darling,” said he, gently and ten- 
derly. “ You know all I can tell you. You know I have 
cared for you all my life. And I ’ll wait now till you tell 


220 FAITH GARTNET’S GIRLHOOD. 


me I may speak again. Till you put ou that little ring of 
mine^ Faith ! ” 

There was a little loving reproach in these last words. 

“ Please take me home, now, Paul ! ” 

They were close upon the return path around the Lake. 
A look of disappointed pain, passed over Paul Kushleigh’s 
features. This was hardly the happy reception, however 
shy, he had hoped and looked for. Still he hoped, however. 
He could not think she did not care for him. She, who had 
been the spring of his own thoughts and purposes for years. 
But, obedient to her wish, he touched his horse with the 
lash, and urged him homeward. 

How many minutes, how many miles, they might have 
counted, as they sat side by side, in that intense conscious- 
ness that was speechless, neither thought. 

Paul helped her from the wagon at the little white gate 
at Cross Corners, and then they both remembered that she 
was to have gone to Lakeside to tea. 

“ What shall I tell Margaret? ’’ he asked. 

“Oh, don’t tell her anything! I mean — tell her, I 
could n’t come to-night. And, Paul — forgive me I I do 
want so to do what is right 1 ” 

“Isn’t it right to let me try and make you happy all 
your life?” 

A light had broken upon her, — confusedly, it is true, — 
yet that began to show her to hWself more plainly than any 
glimpse she had had before, as Paul’s words, simple, yet 
burning with his strong sure love, came to her, with their 
claim to honest answer. 

She saw what it was he brought her ; she felt it was less 
jhe had to give him back. There was something in the 
world she might go missing all the way through life, if she 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 22\ 


took this lot i^at lay before her now. Would he not miss a 
something in her, also? Yet, must she needs insist on the 
greatest, the rarest, that God ever sends ? Why should she, 
more than others? Would she wrong him more, to give him 
what she could, or to refuse him all? 

“ I ought — if I do — ” she said, tremulously, “to care 
as you do ! ” 

“ You never can. Faith! ” cried the young man, impetu- 
ously. “ I care as a man cares! Let me love you! care a 
little for me, and let it grow to more ! ” 

Men, till something is accorded, are willing to take so 
little ! And then, straightway, the little must become so 
entire ! 

“ Well, I declare ! ” exclaimed Mis’ Battis, as Faith came 
in, “Who ’d a thought o’.seein’ you home to tea ! I spose 
you aint had none ? ” 

The fire was down, — the kitchen stove immaculate in 
blackness from fresh polish, and the relict sat in her wooden 
rocking-chair opposite the door that stood open into the 
sitting-room, with her knitting in her hands, working at it, 
dreamily, in the twilight. 

“ Yes — no. That is, I don’t want any. Where is my 
mother ? ” 

“ She and your pa ’s gone down to Dr. Wasgatt’s. I knew 
't would be contrary to the thirty-nine articles that they 
should get away from there without their suppers, and so I 
let the fire right down, and blacked the stove.” 

“ Never mind,” said Faith, abstractedly. “ I don’t feel 
hungry.” And she went away, up stairs. 

“M!” said Mis’ Battis, significantly, to herself, running 
a released knitting-needle through her hair, “ Don’t tell me ! 
I ’ve ben through the mill ! ” 

19 * 


222 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


Half-an-hour after, she came np to FaitVs door. 

The minister’s down stairs,” said she, “ Hope to good- 
ness he ’s had Ms supper ! ” 

“ Oh, if I dared ! ” thought Faith ; and her heart throh- 
h^ tumultuously. “ Why can’t there be somebody to tell 
me what I ought to do? ” 

If she had dared, how she could have leaned upon this 
friend! How she could have trusted her conscience and her 
fate to his decision ! 

And still the light that lighted her to herself was hut a 
glimmer I 

There was a moment when a word was almost on her lips, 
that might have changed, who knows ? so much that was to 
come after 1 

“ Does anything trouble you to-night. Miss Faith ? ” 
asked Mr. Armstrong, watching her sad, abstracted look in 
one of the silent pauses that broke their attempts at conver- 
sation. “ Are you ill, or tired? ” 

1 “ Oh, no ! ” answered Faith, quickly, from the surface, as 
one often does when thoughts lie deep. *) “lam quite well. 
Only — I am sometimes puzzled.” 

“ About what is? Or about what ought to be? ” 

“About doing. So much depends. I get so tired — 
feeling how responsible everything makes me. I wish I 
were a little child again! Or that somebody would just take 
me and tell me where to go, and where to stay, and what to 
do, and what not. From minute to minute, as the things 
come up.” 

Eoger Armstrong, with his great, chastened soul, yearned 
over the child as she spoke ; so gladly he would have taken 
her, at that moment, to his heart, and bid her lean on him 
for all that man might give of help, — of love, — of leading ! 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 223 


If she had told him, in that moment, all her doubt, as 
for the instant of his pause she caught her breath with 
swelling impulse to do ! 

“ ‘ And they shall all be led of God ; ’ ” said the minister. 
‘‘It is only to be willing to take His way rather than one’s 
own. All this that seems to depend painfully upon one’s- 
self, depends, then, upon Him. The act is human — the 
consequences become Divine.” 

Faith was silenced then. There was no appeal to human 
help from that. Her impulse throbbed itself away into a 
lonely passiveness again. 

There was a distance between these two that neither dared 
to pass. 

A word was spoken between mother and daughter as they 
parted for the night. 

“ Mother ! I have such a thing to think of, — to decide ! ” 

It was whispered low, and with cheek hidden on her 
mother’s neck, as the good-night kiss was taken. 

“ Decide for your own happiness, Faithie. We have seen 
and understood for a long time. If it is to be as we think, 
nothing could give us a greater joy for you.” 

Ah I how much had father and mother seen and under- 
stood ? < 

The daughter went her way, to wage her own battle in 
secret ; to balance and fix her decision between her own 
heart and God. So we'find ourselves left, at the last, in all 
the great crises of our life. 

Late that night, while Mr. and Mrs. Gartney were felici- 
tating each other, cheerily, upon the great good that had 
fallen to the lot of their cherished child, that child sat bv 
her open window, looking out into the summer night ; the 
tossing elm-boughs whispering weird syllables in her ears, 


224 FAITH GARTNETH GIRLHOOD, 


and tlie stars looking down upon her soul-struggle, so silent- 
ly, from so far ! 

“ He had cared for her all his life.” And who had been 
to her, in the happy years of the unthinking past, what he 
had been ? Had she a right to do other than to go on in this, 
seemingly, her appointed path of life? Was not this the 
“ high and holy work of love ” that next awaited her? For 
father and mother she had done, in her girlish sacrifice and 
effort, what she could. Now, did not a greater work rise 
before her for others ? and no less, at the same time, per- 
haps, for them ? 

To take anxiety from them, — to gratify what she per- 
ceived to have been a cherished wish and hope of theirs for 
her, — to leave them without care, save for the little brother 
for whom they would wish to do so much, and for whom 
they could do so much better when their cares for her were 
ended?”, 

Aiid then, to help Paul, as he had asked her, to make a 
home here. To build up about them all things beautiful 
and true. Influence, — and all good that comes of influence 
and opportunity. To keep near them the lofty counsel they 
both would love, — to be guided by it, — to carry it out, 

— to live so in a pure and blessed friendship, that should 
exalt them both. What might not God will that she should 
be to Paul, — that each should be to the other ? 

Or, to cast down utterly all these hopes of father, mother, 
and lover, — to dash aside the opportunity set in her way, 
recklessly, — impiously, it might be ! To carry, all her life, 
a burden upon heart and soul, the anguish she had laid on 
one who loved her 1 

And all, because, caring for him as she surely did, she 
had a doubt as to whether she might quite care as he did, 

— as it was possible for her to care I 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 225 


He had said she could not feel as he. That he felt as a 
man. Perhaps it was so. That a woman’s love must needs 
be different. 

Woman’s necessity is to lose herself — to give herself 
away. If she be hindered from doing this, in the sweet and 
utter forgetfulness of a noble and unthwarted affection, her 
noxt impulse is to self-sacrifice. 

There are nuns ; there are nurses like Mehitable Samp- 
son ; there are sisters and patronesses of charity ; there are 
hundreds — thousands — like Faith Gartney, who marry 
from a pure, blind reaching for a holy sphere of good. They 
have entreated God to lead them. They have given up self, 
and sought His work of Him. Does He not guide ? Does 
He not give it ? 

The^whole, long story, that He only sees, in its unfolding 
shall surely show. 

“Mr. Eushleigh ’s here ! ” shouted Hendie, precipitating 
himself, next morning, into the breakfast-room, where, at a 
rather later hour than usual, Mrs. Gartney and Faith were 
washing and wiping the silver and china, and Mr. Gartney 
still lingered in his seat, finishing somebody’s long speech, 
reported in the evening paper of yesterday. 

“ Mr. Eushleigh ’s here, on his long- tailed black horse! 
And he says he ’ll give me a ride, but not yet. He wants 
to see papa. Make haste, papa.” 

Faith dropped her towel, and as Mr. Gartney rose to go 
out and meet his visitor, just whispered, hurriedly, to her 
mother, — 

“ I ’ll come down again. I’ll see him before he goes.” 
And escaped up the kitchen staircase to her own room. 

Paul Eushleigh came, he told Mr. Gartney, because, al- 
though Faith had not authorized him to appeal to her father 


i 

226 FAnil GARTNET’S GIRLHOOD. 

to ratify any consent of hers, he thought it right to let him 
know what he had already said to his daughter. He did 
not wish to hurry Faith. He only wished to stand openly 
with Mr. Gartney in the matter, and would wait, then, till 
she should be quite ready to give him her own answer. 

He explained the prospect his father offered him, and the 
likelihood of his making a permanent home at Kinnicutt. 

“ That is,” he added, “ if I am to be so happy as to have 
a home, anywhere, of my )wn.” 

Mr. Gartney was delighted with the young man’s unaf- 
fected warmth of heart and noble candor. 

“I could not wish better for my daughter, Mr. Eush- 
leigh,” he replied. “ And she is a daughter whom I may 
fairly wish the best for, too.'’ 

Paul Ptushleigh grasped the hand held out to him, in a 
strong gratitude for the favor shown himself, and mute, 
eloquent concurrence in the father’s honest tribute to his 
child’s worth. 

Mr. Gartney rose. “ I will send Faith,” said he. 

“I do not as^ for her,” answered Paul, a flush of feelina: 
showing in his cheek. “ I did not come, expecting it ; — 
my errand was one I owed to yourself ; — but Faith knows 
quite well how glad I shall be if she chooses to see me.” 

As Mr. Gartney crossed the hall from parlor to sitting- 
room, a light step came over the front staircase. 

Faith passed her father, with a downcast look, as he mo- 
tioned with his hand toward the room where Paul stood, 
waiting. The bright color spread to her temples as she 
glided in. 

She held, but did not wear, the little turquoise ring. 

Paul saw it, as he came forward, eagerly. 

A thrill of hope, or dread, — he scarce knew which, — 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 227 


quivered suddenly at his heart. Wa-s he to take it back, 
or place it on her finger as a pledge^? 

“ I have been thinking, Paul,” said she, tremulously, 
and with eyes that fell again away from his, after the first 
glance and greeting, “almost ever since. And I do not 
think I ought to keep you waiting to know the little I can 
tell you. I do not think I understand myself. I cannot 
tell, certainly, how I ought — how I do feel. I have liked 
you very much. And it was very pleasant to me before all 
this. I know you deserve to be made very happy. ^ And 
if it depends on me, I do not dare to say I \^ill not try to 
do it. If you think, yourself, that this is enough, — that I 
shall do the truest thing so, — I will try.” 

, And the timid little fingers laid the ring into his hand, 
to do with as he would. 

What else could Paul have done ? 

With the strong arm that should henceforth uphold and 
guard her, he drew her close ; and with the other hand 
slipped the simply jewelled round upon her finger. For 
all word of answer, he lifted it, so encircled, to his lips. 

Faith shrank and trembled. 

Hendie’s voice sounded, jubilant, along the upper floor, 
toward the staircase. 

“I will go, now, if you wish. Perhaps I ought,” said 
Paul. “ And yet, I would so gladly stay. May I come 
again, by-and-by?” 

Faith uttered a half-audible assent, and as Hendie’s step 
came nearer down the stairs, and passed the door, straight 
out upon the grass-plat, toward the gate, and the long-tailed 
black horse that stood there, she escaped again to her own 
chamber. 

Hendie had his rid^. Meanwhile, his sister, down upon 


i 

228 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 

her knees at her bedside, struggled with the mystery and 
doubt of her own heart. Why could she not feel happier? 
Would it never be otherwise? Was this all life had for 
her, in its holiest gift, henceforth ? But, come what might, 
she would ^ have God, always^ 

So, without words, only with tears, she prayed, and at 
last, grew calm. 


it 




ff 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

• # 

CONFLICT. 

“ O Life, O Beyond, 

Art thou fair I — art thou sweet ? ** 1 

Mrs. Browning. 

We live two lives. A life of our deepest thought and 
feeling, that gets stirred hut seldom ; and a surface-life 
among things and words. 

The great events that come to us wear two aspects. One 
when we look at them from the inmost, and measure them 
in all their mighty relation to , what is everlasting ; and 
again another as they affect only the little outward details 
of doing. 

One hour, we are alone before God, and the soul’s grasp 
stretches out toward the Infinite. All that befalls or may 
befall it, then seems great, momentous. We sleep, — we 
rise, — we are our daily petty selves again, — presences 
and voices come about that call us back into our superficial 
round, — and, underneath, for weal or woe, the silenced 
tide of our real being surges onward — whither ? 

So the river freezes over, and bears a merriment upon its 
bosom. So the great earth whereon we dwell wears its 
crust of hills and plains and cities above its everlasting 
fires. 


20 


230 FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD, 


There followed days that almost won Faith hack into her 
outward life of pleasantness. 

Margaret came over with Madam Eushleigh, and fe- 
licitated herself and friend, impetuously. Paul’s mother 
thanked her for making her son happy. Old Mr. Eush- 
leigh kissed her forehead with a blessing. And Mr. and 
Mrs. Gartney looked upon their daughter as with new eyes 
of love. Hendie rode the black horse every day, and de- 
clared that “ everything was just as jolly as it could be I ” 

Paul drove her out, and walked with her, and talked of 
his plans, and all they would do and have together. 

And she let herself be brightened by all this outward 
cheer and promise, and this looking forward to a happiness 
and use that were to come. But still she shrank and trem- 
bled at every lover-like caress, and still she said, fearfully, 
every now and then, — 

“ Paul, — I don’t feel as you do. What if I don’t love 
you as I ought ? ” 

And Paul called her his little oversensitive, conscientious 
Faithie, and persuaded himself and her that he had no fear 
— that he was quite satisfied. 

When Mr. Armstrong came to see her, gravely and ten- 
derly wishing her joy, and looked searchingly into her face 
for the pure content that should be there, she bent her head 
into her hands, and wept. 

She was very weak, you say ? She ought to have known 
her own mind better? Perhaps. I speak of her as she 
was. There are mistakes like these in life ; there are hearts 
that suffer thus, unconscious of their ail. 

The minister waited while the momentary burst of emo- 
tion subsided, and something of Faith’s wonted manner 
returned. 


FAITH GAEJ’NET'S GIRLHOOD. 231 


'* It is very foolish of me,” she said, “ and you must 
think me very strange. But, somehow, tears come easily 
when one has been feeling a great deal. And such kind 
words from you touched me.” 

“ My words and thoughts will always be kind for you, 
my child. And I know very well that tears may mean 
sweeter and deeper things than smiles. I will not try you 
with much talking now. You have my affectionate wishes 
and my prayers. If there is ever any help that I can give, 
to you who have so much loving help about you, count on 
me as an earnest friend, always.” 

The hour was past when Faith, if she could ever, could 
have asked of him the help she did most sorely need. 

And so, with a gentle hand-clasp, he went away. 

Mr. Gartney began to be restless about Michigan. He 
wanted to go and see this wild estate of his. He would 
have liked to take his wife, now that haying would soon be 
over, and he could spare the time from his farm, and make 
it a pleasant summer journey for them both. But he could 
neither leave Faith, nor take her, well, it seemed. Hendie 
might go. Fathers always think their boys ready for the 
world when once they are fairly out of the nursery. 

One day, Paul came to Cross Corners with news. 

Mr. Kushleigh had affairs to be arranged and looked to, 
in New York, — matters connected with the mills, which 
had, within a few weeks, begun to run ; — he had been 
there, once, about them ; he could do all quite well, now, 
by letter, and an authorized messenger ; he could not just 
now very well leave Kinnicutt. Besides, he wanted Paul 
to see and know his business friends, and to put himself in 
the way of valuable business information. Would Faith 
spare him for a week or two, — he bade his son to ask. 


232 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 

Madam Eushleigli would accompany Paul ; and before 
his return he would go with his mother to Saratoga, where 
her daughter Gertrude and Mrs. Philip Kushleigh were, 
and where he was to leave her for the remainder of their 
stay. 

Margaret liked Kinnicutt better than any watering-place ; 
and she and her father had made a little plan of their own, 
which, if Firith would go back with him, they would explain 
to her. 

So Faith went over to Lakeside to tea, and heard the 
plan. 

“ We are going to make our first claim upon you, Faith;” 
said the elder Mr. Eushleigh, as he led his daughter-in-law 
elect out on the broad piazza under the Italian awnings, 
when the slight summer evening repast was ended. “We 
want to borrow you, while madam and the yonker are gone. 
Your father tells me he wishes to niake a western journey. 
Now, why not send him ofi* at this very time ? I think your 
mother intends accompanying him? ” 

“ It had been talked of,” Faith said ; “ and perhaps her 
father would be very glad to go when he could leave her in 
such good keeping. She would tell him what Mr. Eush- 
leigh had been so kind as to propose.” 

It was a suggestion of real rest to Faith, — this free 
companionship with Margaret again, in the old girlish fash- 
ion, — and the very thoughtful look, that was almost sad, 
which had become habitual to her face, of late, brightened 
into the old, careless pleasure, as she spoke. 

Mr. Eushleigh noted. A little doubt, like a quick shade, 
crossed him, for the first time. 

It was almost like a look of relief. And Paul was to be 
away ! 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 233 

Paul and his mother came out on the piazza, and Madam 
Rushleigh drew Paith to a place between them, on the wide 
Indian settee. 

Margaret went to the piano, and sang her twilight songs. 
And the sweet tones floated out from the open windows, and 
lingered about them as they sat there ; and then diffused 
themselves away upon the still, warm air, into faint vibra- 
tions, lost to human hearing ; yet spreading, — who can tell ? 
perhaps, — in a rare, ethereal joy of melody, the mere soul 
of music, whereof the form, like all other form, may die, 
while the spirit, once evoked, lives on forever, and reaching 
with each thinned, successive wave, . seme listening, adapted 
sense in the great deep of being. 

, The elegant comfort, the refined pleasantness, the family 
joy that reigned in the Kushleighs’ home, and that welcomed 
and took Faith in, and made her an essential part of it, — 
how could i^help but win her to a glad content ? All these 
accompanying relationships and circumstances made an 
exterior sphere for her that was so suited to her feeling and 
her taste, that in it she always lost, for the moment, her 
doubt, and accepted, involuntarily, the obvious good of this, 
her secondary life. 

It was only when she forgot all else, and turned her 
thought, self-searchingly, to' her tie with him who was to be 
the life-long, unchanging centre, henceforth, of whatever 
world, in all the years to come, might gather and shift about 
her, that the fear and the shrinking came back. 

She was happier, scgnehow, when father, mother, and 
sister, with their winning endearments, were all about her 
with him, than when he claimed her to himself, and sought 
to speak or show his tenderness. 

Old Mr. Pushleigh saw something in this Uiat began to 
seem to him i^ore than mere maidenly shyness. 

20 * 


234 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


By-and-by, Margaret called her brother to sing with her 

“ Come, Faithie,” said Paul, as he rose, drawing her 
gently by the hand. “ I can’t sing unless you go, too.” 

Faith went; more, it seemed, of his will, than her own. 

“ How does that appear to you?” said Mr. Rushleigh to 
his^wife. “ Is it all right ? Does the child care for Paul ? ” 

“ Care !” exclaimed the mother, almost surprised into too 
audible speech. “ How can she help caring ? And has n’t 
it grown up from childhood with them ? What put such a 
question into your head ? I should as soon think of doubt- 
ing whether I care for you.” 

It was easier for the father to doubt, jealously, for his 
son, than for the mother to conceive the possibility of indif- 
ference in the woman her boy had chosen. 

' “Besides,” added Mrs. Rushleigh, “why, else, should 
she have accepted him? I know Faith Gartney is not 
mercenary, or worldly ambitious.” 

“ I am quite sure of that, as well,” answered her husband. 
“ It is no doubt of her motive or her worth, — I can’t say 
it is really a doubt of anything ; but, Gertrude, she must 
not marry the boy unless her whole heart is in it ! A 
sharp stroke is better than a life-long pain.” 

“I’m sure I can’t tell what has come over you! She 
can’t ever have thought of anybody else 1 And she seems 
quite one of ourselves.” 

“Yes; that’s just the uncertainty,” replied Mr. Rush- 
, leigh. “ Whether it isn’t as much Margaret, and you and 
I, as Paul. Whether she fully knows what she is about. 
She can’t marry the family, you know. We shall die, and 
go off, and Heaven knows what ; ' Paul must be the whole 
world to her, or nothing. I hope he has n’t hurried her, — 
or let her hurry herself.” 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 235 


“ Hurry ! Slie lias had years to make up her mind in ! ” 

Mrs. Eushleigh, woman as she was, would not under- 
stand. 

“We shall go, in three days,” said Paul, when he stood 
in the moonlight with Faith at the little white gate under 
the elms, after driving her home ; “and I must have you 
all the time to myself, until then ! ” 

Faith wondered if it were right that she shouldn’t 
quite care to he “ had all the time to himself until then ” ? 
Whether such demonstrativeness and exclusiveness of affec- 
tion was ever a little irksome to others as to her ? 

Faith thought and questioned, often, what other girls 
might feel in positions like her own, and tried to judge her- 
self by them ; it absolutely never occurred to her to think 
how it might have been if another than Paul had stood in 
this relation toward herself. 

The young man did not quite have his own way, however. 
His father went down to Mishaumok on one of the three 
days, and left him in charge at the mills ; and there were 
people to see, and arrangements to make-; but some part of 
each day he did manage to devote to Faith, and they had 
walking and driving together, and every night Paul staid 
to tea at Cross Corners. 

^On the last evening, they sat together, by the hill-side 
door, in the summer parlor. 

“ Faithie,” said Paul, a little suddenly, “ there is some- 
thing you must do for me — do you know ? ” 

“ What is it? ” asked Faith, quite calmly. 

“You must wear this, now, and keep the forget-me-nol 
for a guard.” 

He held her hand, that wore the ring, in one of his,, and 
there was a flash of diamonds as he brought the other to- 
'j^vrd it. 


236 FAITH GAFTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


Then Faith gave a quick, strange cry. 

“I can’t! I can’t! Oh, Paul! don’t ask me!” And 
her hand was drawn from the clasp of his, and her face was 
hidden in both her own. ^ 

Paul drew back — hurt, silent. 

“ If I could only wait ! ” she murmured. “ I don’t dare, 
yet!” 

She could wear the forget-me-not, as she wore the memory 
of all their long young friendship ; it belonged to the past ; 
but this definite pledge foy the future, — these diamonds ! 

“ Do you not quite belong to me, even yet? ” asked Paul, 
with a resentment, yet a loving and patient one, in his 
voice. 

“I told you,” said Faith, “that I would try — to be to 
you as you wish ; but, Paul ! if 1 could n’t be so, truly ? — 
I don’t know why I feel so uncertain. Perhaps it is because 
you care for me too much. Your thought for me is so 
great, that mine, when I look at it, never seems worthy.” _ 

Paul was a man. He could not sue, too cringingly, even 
for Faith Gartney’s love. 

“ And I told you. Faith, that I was satisfied to be allowed 
to love you. That you should love me a little, and let it 
grow to more. But if it is not love at all, — if I frighten 
you, and repel you, — I have no wish to make you unhappy. 

I must let you go. And yet — oh. Faith ! ” he cried, — the 
sternness all gone, and only the wild love sweeping through 
his heart, and driving wild words before it, — “ it can’t be 
that it is no love, after all ! It would be too cruel ! ” 

At those words, “I must let you go,” spoken apparently 
with calmness, as if it could be done. Faith felt a bound of 
freedom in her soul. If he would let her go, and care for 
. her in the old way, only as a friend ! But the strong pas- 


FAITH GARTHET^S GIRLHOOD. 237 

sionixiT^ accents came after ; and the old battle of doubt and 
pity and i*einorse surged up again, and the cloud of tbeir 
strife dimmed all perception, save that sbe was very, very 
wretched. 

Sbe sobbed, silently. 

“Don’t let uid rsay good-bye, so,” said Paul. “Don’t let 
us quarrel. We will let all wait, as you wish, till I come 
home again.” 

So he still clung tu her, and held her, half-bound. 

“And your father, Paul? And Margaret? How can I 
let them receive me as tficy do, — how can I go to them as 
1 have promised, in all this indecision ? ” 

“ They want you, Faith, lor your own sake. There is no 
need for you to disappoint them. It is better to say nothing 
more until we do know. I aj>k it of you, — do not rdftise 
me this, — to let all rest just hei'e ; to make no difference 
until I come back. You will let me write. Faith? ” 

“ Why, yes, Paul,” she said, wonderingly. 

It was so hard for her to comprehend that it could not be 
with him, any longer, as it had been ,* that his written or 
his spoken word could not be, for a time, at least, mere 
friendly any more. 

And so she gave him, unwittingly, this hope to go with. 

“ I think you do care for me. Faith, if you only knew it ! 
said he, half sadly and very wistfully, as they parted. 

“ I do care, very much,” Faith answered, simply and 
earnestly. “ I never can help caring. It is only that I am 
afraid I care so differently from you ! ” 

She was nearer loving him at that moment, than she had 
ever been. 

Who* shall attempt to bring into accord the seeming con- 
tradictions of a woman’s heart? 


CHAPTEE XXV. 


A GAME AT CHESS. 

Life’s burdens fall, its discords cease, 

I lapse into the glad release 
Of nature’s own exceeding peace.” 

Whittieb. 

don’t see,” said Aunt Faith, “ why the child can’t 
come to me, Henderson, while you and Elizabeth are away. 
I don’t believe in putting yourself under obligations to peo- 
ple till you ’re sure they ’re going to be something to you. 
Things don’t always turn out according to the Alm^inac.” 

“ She goes just as she always has gone to the Eush- 
leighs,” replied Mr. Gartney. “ Paul is to be away. It is 
a visit to Margaret. Still, I shall be absent at least a 
fortnight, and it might be well that she should divide her"^ 
time, and come to Cross Corners for a few days, if it is only 
to see the house opened and ready. Luther can have a bed 
here, if Mis’ Battis should be afraid.” 

Mis’ Battis was to improve the fortnight’s interval for a 
visit to Factory Village. 

“Well, fix it your own way,” said Miss Henderson. 
“I’m ready for her, any time. Only, if she ’s going to 
peak and pine as she has done ever since this grand match 
was settled for her. Glory and I’ll have our hands full, 
nursing her, by then you get back I ” 


F^ITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 239 


Faith is quite well,” said Mrs. Gartney. “ It is natural 
for a girl to be somewhat thoughtful when she decides foi 
herself such an important relation.” 

“ Symptoms differ, in different cases. I should say she 
was taking it pretty hard,” said the old lady. 

Mr. and Mrs. Gartney left home on Monday. 

Faith and Mis’ Battis remained in the house a few hours 
after, setting all things in that dreary “to rights” before 
leaying, which is almost, in its chillness and silence, like 
burial array. Glory came over to help ; and when all was 
done, — blinds shut, windows and doors fastened, fire out, 
ashes removed, — stove blackened, — Luther drove Mis’ 
Battis and her box over to Mrs. Franker’ s, and Glory took 
Faith’s little bag for her to the Old House. 

This night she was to stay with her aunt. She wanted 
just this little pause and quiet before going to the Bush- 
leighs’. 

“ Tell Aunt Faith I ’m coming,” said she, as she let her- 
self and- Glory out at the front door, and then, locking it, 
put the key in her pocket. “I ’ll just walk up over the 
Eidge first, for a little coolness and quiet, after this busy 
day.” 

It had been truly so busy, that Faith had had no time 
for facing her intruding thoughts ; but put them all off, and 
thrust them back, as it were, into the antechamber of her 
mind, to be bidden in when she should be more at leisure ; 
and even yet, she would not let them crowd upon her with 
their importunate errands. She wanted just this little time 
for respite. This Monday evening should be all peaceful. 
There was a natural reaction from the tense strain that had 
been upon thought and feeling, that made this at once an 
instinct and a possibility. She held herself in a passiveness 
that would, for awhile, neither feel nor consider 


240 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


Slie walked up the shady path to the boulder rock, and 
cradled herself in its stony hollow, — just where she had 
sat and listened, weeks before, to Eoger Armstrong’s story. 

The summer sweetness, distilled all day by the glowing 
sun out of all growing things, came up to and around her. 
Beauty and stillness folded her as in a garment. She was 
in God’s world still ! Whatever world of fear and doubt 
and struggle her spirit might be groping into, dimly, things 
outside her were unchanged. She would come back into, 
and live in them for a few brief hours of utter and child- 
like calm. 

There was the peace of a rested body and soul upon her 
face when she came down again a half hour after, and 
crossed the lane, and entered, through the stile, upon the 
field-path to the Old House. Heart and will had been laid 
asleep, — earthly plan and purpose had been put aside in 
all their incompleteness and uncertainty, — and only God 
and Nature had been permitted to come near. 

Mr. Armstrong walked down and met her midway in the 
field. 

“ How beautiful mere simpleness and quiet are,” said 
Baith. “ The cool look of trees and grass, and the stillness 
of this evening time, are better even than flowers, and bright 
sunlight, and singing of birds 1 ” 

“ ‘ He maketh me to lie down in green pastures : He 
leadeth me beside the still waters : He restoreth niy soul : 
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s 
sake.’ ” 

They did not disturb the stillness by more words. They 
came up together, in the hush and shadow, to the pleasant 
doorstone, that offered its broad invitation to their entering 
feet, and where Aunt Baith at this, moment stood, watching 
and awaiting them. 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 241 


“Go into the hlue bedroom, and lay off your things, 
child,” she said, giving Faith a kiss of welcome, “ and then 
come hack and we ’ll have our tea.” 

Faith disappeared through passages and rooms beyond. 

Aunt Henderson turned quickly to the minister. • 

“ You’re her ^iritual adviser, aint you ? ” she asked, 
abruptly. 

“ I ought to be,” answered Mr. Armstrong. 

“ Why don’t you advise her then? ” 

“ Spiritually, I do and will, in so far as so pure a spirit can 
need a help from me. But, — I think I know what you 
mean, Miss Henderson, — spirit and heart are two. I am a 
man ; and she is — what you know.” 

Miss Henderson’s keen eyes fixed themselves, for a minute, 
piercingly and unfiinchingly, on the minister’s face. Then » 
she turned, without a word, and went into the house to 
see the tea brought in. She knew, now, all there was 
to tell. 

Faith’s face interpreted itself to Mr. Armstrong. He 
saw that she needed, that she would have, rest. Best, this 
night, from all that of late had given her weariness and 
trouble. So, he did not even talk to her in the way they 
mostly talked together ; he would not rouse, ever so distantly, 
thought, that might, by so many subtle links, bear round 
upon her hidden pain. But he brought, — after tea, when 
the faint little shaded lamp, that hardly quarrelled with the 
twilight, or, if it did, made nothing more than a drawn 
battle of it, so that dor-bugs and mosquitoes could not 
make up their minds, positively, that they should do better 
inside than out, was lit in the southeast room, — a tiny 
chess-board, and set the delicate carved men upon it, and 
asked her if she knew the game. 


242 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 

“ A little,” she said. “ What everybody always owns to 
knowing — the moves.” 

“ Suppose we play? ” 

It was a very pleasant novelty, — sitting down with this 
grave, earnest friend to a game of skill, — and seeing him 
bring to it all the resource of power and thought that he 
bent, at other times, on more important work. 

Whatever Eoger Armstrong did, he did with the might 
that was in him. 

“Not that, Miss Faith! You don’t mean that! You 
put your queen in danger.” 

“ My queen is always a great trouble to me,” said Faith, 
<5miling, as she retracted the half- made move. “ I think I 
Wo better when I give her up in exchange.” 

“ Excuse me. Miss Faith ; but that always seems to me a 
cowardly sort of game. It is like giving up a great power 
in life because one is too weak to claim and hold it.” 

“ Only I make you lose yours, too.” 

“ Yes, there is a double loss and inefficiency. Does that 
make a better game, or one pleasanter to play ? ” 

“There are two people, in there, talking riddles; and 
they don’t even know it,” said Miss Henderson to her hand- 
maid, in the kitchen close by. 

Perhaps Mr. Armstrong, as he spoke, did discern a pos- 
sible deeper significance in his own words ; did misgive him- 
self that he might rouse thoughts so ; at q^ny rate, he made 
rapid, skilful movements on the board, that brought the 
game into new complications, and taxed all Faith’s attention 
to avert their dangers to herself. 

For half an hour, there was no more talking. 

Then Faith’s queen was put in helpless peril. 

“ I must give her up,” said she. “ She is all but gone.” 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 243 


A few moves more, and all Faith’s hope depended on one 
little pawn, that might he pushed to queen and save her game. 

“ How one does want the queen-power at the last ! ” said 
she. “ And how much easier it is to lose it, than to get it 
back ! ” 

“ It is like the one great, leading possibility, that life, in 
some sort, offers each of us,” said Mr. Armstrong. “ Once 
lost, — once missed, — we may struggle on without it, — we 
may push little chances forward to partial amends ; but the 
game is changed ; its soul is gone.” 

As he spoke he made the move that led to obvious check- 
mate. 

Glory came in to the cupboard, now, and began putting 
up the tea-things she had brought from washing. 

Mr. Armstrong had done just what, at first, he had meant 
not to do. Had be bethought himself better, and did he 
seize the opening to give vague warning where he might not 
speak more plainly ? Or, had his habit, as a man of thought, 
discerning quick meaning in all things, betrayed him into 
the instant’s forgetfulness? 

However it might be. Glory caught glimpse of two strange, 
pained faces over the little board and its mystic pieces. 

One, pale, — downcast, — with expression showing a sud- 
den pang ; the other, suffering also, yet tender, self-forgetful, 
loving, — looking on. 

“ I don’t know whichever is worst,” she said afterward, 
without apparent suggestion of word or circumstance, to her 
mistress ; “to see the beautiful times that there are in the 
world, and not be in ’em, — or to see people that might bo 
in ’em, and aint ! ” 

They were all out on the front stoop, later. They sat in 
the cool, summer dusk, and looked out between the arched 


2U FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


lattices where the vines climbed up, seeing the stars rise, 
far away, eastwardly, in the blue ; and Mr. Armstrong, talking 
with Faith, managed to win her back into the calm he had, 
for an instant, broken.; and to keep her from pursuing the 
tho^ht that by-and-by would surely come back, and which 
she would surely want all possible gain of strength to grap- 
ple with. 

Faith met his intention bravely, seconding it with her own. 
These hours, to the last, should still be restful. She would 
not think, to-night, of those words that had startled her so, 
— of all they suggested or might mean, — of life’s great 
possibility lost to him, away back in the sorrowful past, as 
she also, perhaps was missing it, — relinquishing it, — now. 

She knew not that his thought had been utterly self- 
forgetful. She believed that he had told her, indirectly, of 
himself, when he had spoken those dreary syllables, — the 
game is changed. Its soul is gone ! ” 

Singularly, that night again, as on the night so long ago, 
when Faith'had come on her little visit of exploration to 
Kinnicutt, the lesson read them from the Bible was that 
miracle of the loaves and fishes. 

A comfort came to Faith, as she listened ; as the comfort 
we need at the moment always does come, by the instant 
gift of the Spirit, through whatever 'Gospel- words may be 
its vehicle. 

The loaves might be few and small ; life might be scant 
and insufficient seemingly ; yet a touch Divine should multi- 
ply th3 food, and make it ample I 

Nevertheless, — did she remember this ? That, but the 
next day after, the disciples, with this recognized Divine- 
ness at their side, stood self-rebuked, because they had 
neglected to make for themselves such human provision as 
they might have done ? 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


LAKESIDE. 

“ Look ! are the southern curtains drawn ? 

Fetch rue a fan, and so begone ! 

• •••••• 

Rain me sweet odors on the air, 

And wheel me up my Indian chair j 
And spread some book not overwise 
Flat out before my sleepy eyes.” 

O. W. Holmes. 

The Eushleighs’ breakfast-room at Lakeside was very 
Iwely in a summer’s morning. 

Looking off, northwestwardly, across the head of the 
Pond, the long windows, opening down to the piazza, let in 
all the light and joy of the early day, and that inde- 
scribable freshness born from the union of woods and 
water. 

Faith had come down long before the others, this fair 
Wednesday morning. 

Mr. Rushleigh found her, when he entered, sitting by a 
window, — a book upon lier lap, to be sure, — but her eyes 
away off over the lake, and a look in them that told of 
thoughts horizoned yet more distantly. 

Last night, he had brought home Paul’s first letter. 

When he gave it to her, at tea-time, with a gay and 

kindly word, the color that deepened vividly upon her face, 
21 * 


246 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


and the quiet way in which she laid it down beside her 
plate, were nothing strange, perhaps ; but — was he wrong ? 
the eyes that drooped so quickly as the blushes rose, and 
then lifted themselves again so timidly to him as he next 
addressed her, were surely brimmed with feeling that was 
not quite, or wholly glad. 

And now, this wistful, silent, musing, far-off look ! 

“ Good morning, Eaithie ! ” 

“Good morning.” And the glance came back, — the 
reverie was broken, — Faith’s spirit informed her visible 
presence again, and bade him true and gentle welcome. 
“You haven’t your morning paper yet? I’ll bring it. 
Thomas left it in the library, I think. He came back from 
the early train, half an hour ago.” 

“Can’t you women tell what’s the matter with each 
other?” said Mr. Eushleigh to his daughter, who entered 
by the other door, as Faith went out into the hall. “ What 
ails Faith, Margaret ? ” 

“Nothing of consequence, I think. She is tired with 
all that has been going on, lately. And then she’s the 
shyest little thing ! ” 

“It’s a sort of shyness that don’t look so happy as it 
might, it seems to me. And what has become of Paul’s 
diamonds, I wonder? I went with him to choose some, 
last week. I thought I should see them next upon her 
finger.” 

Margaret opened her eyes widely. Of course, this was 
the first she had heard of the diamonds. Where could they 
be, indeed? Was anything wrong? They had not surely 
quarrelled ! 

Faith came in with the paper. Thomas brought up 
breakfast. And presently, these three, with all their 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 247 


thoughts of and for each other, that reached into the long 
years to come, and had their roots in all that had gone by, 
were gathered at the table, seemingly with no further anx- 
iety than to know whether one or another would have toast 
or muffins, — - eggs or raspberries. 

Do we not — and most strangely and incomprehensibly — 
live two lives ? 

“I must write to my mother, to-day,” said Margaret, 
when her father had driven away to the mills, and they 
had brought in a few fresh flowers from the terrace for the 
vases, and had had a little morning music, which Margaret 
always craved, “ as an overture,” she said, “ to the day.” 

“ I must write to my mother ; and you, I suppose, will be 
busy with answering Paul ? ” 

A little consciousness kept her from looking straight in 
Faith’s face, as she spoke. Had she done so, she might 
have seen that a paleness came over it, and that the lips 
trembled. 

“I don’t know,” was the answer. “Perhaps not, to- 
day.” 

“Not to-day? Won’t he be watching every mail? I 
don’t know much about it, to be sure ; but I fancied lovers 
were such uneasy, exacting creatures ! ” 

“ Paul is very patient,” said Faith, — not lightly, as 
Margaret had spoken, but as one self-reproached, almost, 
for abusing patience, — “ and they go to-morrow to Lake 
George. He won’t look for a letter until he gets to Sara- 
toga.” 

She had calculated her .time as if it were the minutes of a 
reprieve. 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Margaret. “How 
came you to reckon so closely ? But, for me, I must write* 


248 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


simply because I have just heard from mamma. My ideas 
are like champagne — good for nothing after the first effer- 
vescence. And the cork is drawn, always, the minute I 
get a letter myself! If I wait till next day, it may as well 
never be answered ; and, very likely, never will 1 ” 

When Paul Eushleigh, with his mother, reached Sara- 
toga, he found two letters there, for him. One kind, sim- 
ple, but reticent, from Faith — a mere answer to that which 
she could answer, of his own. The other was from his 
father. 

“ There seems,” he wrote to his son, toward the close, 
“to be a little cloud upon Faith, somehow. Perhaps it is 
one you would not wish away. It may brighten up and 
roll off, at your return. You, possibly, understand it better 
than I. Yet I feel, in my strong anxiety for your true 
good, impelled to warn you against letting her deceive her- 
self and you, by giving you' less than, for her own happi- 
ness and yours, she ought to be able to give. Do not marry 
the child, Paul, if there can be a doubt of her entire affec- 
tion for you. You had better go through life alone, than 
with a wife’s half-love. If you have reason to imagine that 
she feels bound by anything in the past to what the present 
cannot heartily ratify, — release her. I counsel you to this, 
not more in justice to her, than for the saving of your own 
peace. She writes you to-day. It may be that the anti- 
dote comes with the hurt. I may be quite mistaken. But 
I hurt you, my son, only to save a sorer pain. Faith is 
true. If she says she loves you, believe her, and take her, 
though all the world should doubt. But if she is fearful, 
— if she hesitates, — be fearful, and hesitate yourself, lest 
your marriage be no true marriage before heaven 1 ” 

Paul Eushleigh thanked his father, briefly, for his admo- 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 249 


nition, in reply. He wrote, also, to Faith — affectionately, 
but with something, at last, of her own reserve. He should 
not probably write again. In a week, or less, he would be 
home. , • 

And behind, and beyond all this, that could be put on 
paper, was the hope of a life, — the sharp doubt of days, — 
waiting the final word ! 

In a week, he would be home ! A week ! It might 
bring much ! 

Wednesday had come round again. 

Dinner was nearly ended at Lakeside. Cool jellies, and 
creams, and fruits, were on the table for dessert. Steaming 
dishes of meats and vegetables had been gladly sent away, 
but slightly partaken. The day was sultry. •Even now, 
at five in the afternoon, the heat was hardly mitigated from 
that of midday. 

They lingered over their dessert, and spoke, rather lan- 
guidly, of what might be done after. 

“ For me,” said Mr. Hushleigh, “ I must go down to the 
mills again, before night. If either, or both of you, like a 
drive, I shall be glad to have you with me.” 

“Those hot mills!” exclaimed Margaret. “What an 
excursion to propose 1 ” 

“ I could find you a very cool corner, even in those hot 
mills,” replied her father. “ My little sanctum, up stairs, 
that overlooks the river, and gets its breezes, is the freshest 
place I have been in, to-day. Will you go. Faith? ” 

“ Oh, yes 1 she T1 go ! I see it in her eyes ! ” said Mar- 
• garet. “ She is getting to be as much absorbed in all those 
frantic looms and things, — that set me into a fever just to 
think of, whizzing and humming all day long in this horri- 
ble heat, — as you are ! I believe she expects to help Paul 


250 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 

oversee tlie factory, one of these days, she is so fierce to peer 
into and understand everything about it. Or else, she 
means mischief! You had a funny look in your face, 
Faithie, the other day, when you stood there by the great 
rope that hoists the water-gate, and Mr. Blasland was ex- 
plaining it to us 1 ” 

“I was thinking, I remember,” said Faith, “what a 
strange thing it was to have one’s hand on the very motive 
power of it all. • To see those great looms, and wheels, and 
cylinders, and spindles, we had been looking at, and hear 
nothing but their deafening roar all about us, and to think 
that even I, standing there with my hand upon the rope, 
might htlsh it all, and stop the mainspring of it in a 
minute ! ” 

Ah, Faithiel Did you think, as you said this, how 
your little hand lay, otherwise, also, on the mainspring 
and motive of it all ? One of the three, at least, thought 
of it, as you spoke. 

“ Well, — your heart ’s in the spindles, I see I ” rejoined 
Margaret. “ So, don’t mind me. I have n’t a bit of a 
plan for your entertainment, here. I should n’t, probably, 
speak to you, if you staid. It ’s too hot for anything but 
a book, and a fan, and a sofa by an open window 1 ” 

Faith laughed ; but, before she could reply, a chaise 
rolled up to the open front door, and the step and voice 
of Doctor Wasgatt were heard, as he inquired for Miss 
Gartney. 

Faith left her seat, with a word of excuse, and met him 
in the hall. 

“ I had a patient up this way,” said he, “ and came 
round to bring you a message from Miss Henderson. 
Nothing to be frightened at, in the least; only that she 


FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD. 251 


isn’t quite so well as ordinary, these last hot days, and 
thought perhaps you might as lief come over. She said 
she was expecting you for a visit there, before your folks 
get back. No, thank you ; ” as Faith motioned to conduct 
him to the drawing-room, — “ can’t come in. Sorry I 
could n’t offer to take you down ; but I ’ve got more visits 
to make, and they lie round the other way.” 

“ Is Aunt Faith ill ? ” • 

“ Well, — no. Not so but that she ’ll be spry again in 
a day or two; especially if the weather changes. That 
ancle of hers is troublesome, and she had something of an 
ill turn last night, and called me over this morning. She 
seems to have taken a sort of fancy that she ’d like to have 
you there.” 

“ I ’ll come.” 

And Faith went back, quickly, as Doctor Wg^sgatt de- 
parted, to make his errand known, and to ask if Mr. Kush- 
leigh would mind driving her round to Cross Corners, after 
going to his mills. 

“ Wait till to-morrow, Faithie,” said Margaret, in the 
tone of one whom it fatigues to think of an exertion, even 
for another. “ You ’ll want your box with you, you know ; 
and there is n’t time for anything to-night.” 

“ I think I ought to go now,” answered Faith. “ Aunt 
Henderson never complains for a slight ailment, and she 
might be ill again, to-night. I can take all I shall need 
before to-morrow in my little morocco bag. I won’t keep 
you waiting a minute,” she added, turning to Mr. Eush- 
Icigh. 

“ I can wait twenty, if you wish,” he answered, kindly. 

But in less than ten, they were driving down toward the 
river. 


252 J^AITII GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 

Margaret Euslileigli had betaken herself to her own cool 
chamber, where the delicate straw matting, and pale green, 
leaf-patterned chintz of sofa, chairs, and hangings, gave a 
feeling of the last degree of summer lighjbness and dainti- 
ness, and the gentle air breathed in from the southwest, 
sifted, on the way, of its sunny heat, by the green dra- 
peries of vine and branch it wandered through. 

Lying there, on the cool, springy cushions of her couch, 
“—turning the fresh-cut leaves of the August “ Mishau- 
mok,” — she forgot the wheels and the spindles — the hot 
mills, and the ceaseless whirr. 

Just at that moment of her utter comfort and content, a 
young factory girl dropped, fainting, in the dizzy heat, be- 
fore her loom. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 


AT THE MILLS. 


“ For all day the wheels are droning', turning, — 

Their wind comes in our faces, — 

Till our hearts turn, — our head with pulses burning,— 

And the walls turn in their places.” 

MRS. Browning. 

Eaith sat silent by Mr. Rusbleigb’s side, drinking in, 
also, witb a cool content, tbe river air that blew upon tbeir 
faces as they drove along. 

“ Faithie ! ” said Paul’s father, a little suddenly, at 
last, — “do you know bow true a thing you said a little 
while ago ?” 

“ How, sir?” asked Faith, not perceiving what he meant. 

“When you spoke of having your hand on the main- 
spring of all this ? ” 

And he raised his right arm, motioning with the slender 
whip he held, along the line of factory buildings that lay 
before them. 

A deep, blazing blush burned, at his word, over ifaith’s 
cheek and brow. She sat and suffered it under his eye, — 
uttering not a syllable. 

“ I knew you did not know. You did not think of it so. 
Yet it is true, none the less. — Faith ! Are you happy ? 

Are you satisfied ? ” 

22 


254 FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD. 

Still a silence, and tears gathering in the eyes. 

“ I do not wish to distress you, my dear. It is only a 
little word I should like to hear you speak. I must, so 
far as I can, see that my children are happy. Faith.” 

“ I suppose,” said Faith, tremulously, struggling to 
speech, — “one cannot expect to he utterly happy in this 
world.” 

“ One does expect it, forgetting all else, at the moment 
when is given what seems to one life’s first, great good, — 
the earthly good that comes hut once. I rememher my 
own youth, Faithie. Pure, present xjontent is seldom over- 
wise.” 

“ Only,” said Faith, still tremblingly, “ that the respon- 
sihility comes with the good. That feeling of having one’s 
hand upon the mainspring is a fearful one.” 

“I am not given,” said Mr. Eushleigh, “to quoting 
Bihle at all times ; hut you make a line of it come up to 
me. • ‘ There is no fear in love. Perfect love casteth out 
fear.’ ” 

“ Be sure of yourself, dear child. Be sure you are con- 
tent and happy ; and tell me so, if you can ; or, tell me 
otherwise,,; if you must, without a reserve or misgiving,” 
he said again, as they drove down the mill-entrance ; and 
their conversation, for the time, came, necessarily, to an 
end. 

Coming into the mill-yard, they were aware of a little 
commotion about one of the side doors. 

The mill-girl who had fainted sat here, surrounded by two 
or three of her companions, slowly recovering. 

“ It is Mary Grover, sir, from up at the Peak,” said one 
of them, in reply to Mr. Eushleigh’s question. “ She has n’t 
been well for some days, but she ’s kept on at her work, 


FAITH .GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 255 


and the heat, to-day, wa^s too much for her. She ’d ought 
to he got home, if there was any way. She can’t ever 
walk.” 

“ I ’ll take her, myself,” said the mill-owner, promptly. 
“Keep her quiet here a minute or two, while I go in and 
speak to Blasland.” 

But first he turned to Faith again. “ What shall I dq 
with you, my child?” 

“Dear Mr. Eushleigh,” said she, with all her gratitude 
for his just spoken kindness to herself and her appreciation 
of his ready sympathy for the poor work-girl, in her voice, 
— “don’t think of me ! It ’s lovely out there over the foot* 
bridge, and in the fields; and that way, the distance is 
nearly nothing to Aunt Faith’s. I should like the walk, — 
really.” 

“ Thank you,” said Mr! Eushleigh. “ I believe you 
would. Then I ’ll take Mary Grover up to the Peak.” 

And he shook her hand, and left her standing there, and 
went up into the mill. 

Two of the girls who had come out with Mary Grover, 
followed him and returned to their work. One, sitting with 
her in the door-way, on one of the upper steps, and sup- 
porting her yet dizzy head upon her shoulder, remained. 

Faith asked if she could do anything, and was answered, 
no, with thanks. 

She turned away, then, and walked over the planking 
above the race-way, toward the river, where a pretty little 
foot-bridge crossed it here, from the end of the mill-building. 

Against this end, projected, on this side, a square, tower- 
like appendage to the main structure, around which one 
must pass to reach the foot-bridge. A door at the base 
opened upon a staircase leading up. This was the entrance 


25G FAITH GARTNFT'S GIRLHOOD, 


to Mr. RusUeigli’s “ sanctum,” aboje, wticli communicated, 
also, with the second story of the mill. 

Here Faith paused. She caught, from around the comer, 
a sound of the angry voices of men. 

“ I tell you, I ’ll stay here till I see the boss ! ” 

“I tell you, the boss won’t see you. He’s done with 
you.” 

“Let him he done with me, then; and not go spoiling 
my chance with other people ! J ’ll see it out with him, 
somehow, yet.” 

“ Better not threaten. He won’t go out of his way to 
meddle with you ; only it ’s no use your sending anybody 
here after a character. He ’s one of the sort that speaks 
the truth and shames the devil.” 

“I’ll let him know he aint boss of the whole country 
round ! D — d if I don’t ! ” 

Faith turned away from hearing more of this, and from 
facing the speakers ; and took refuge up the open staircase. 

Above, — in the quiet little counting-room, shut off by 
double doors at the right from the great loom-chamber of 
the mill, and opening at the front by a wide window upon 
the river that ran tumbling and flashing below, spanned by 
the graceful little bridge that reached the green slope of 
the fleld beyond, — it was so cool and pleasant, — so still 
with continuous and softened sound, — that Faith sat down 
upon the comfortable sofa there, to rest, to think, to be 
alone, a little. 

She had Paul’s letter in her pocket ; she had his father’s 
words fresh upon ear and heart. A strange peace came 
over her, as she placed herself here ; as if, somehow, a way 
was soon to be opened and made clear to her. As if she 
should come to know herself, and to be brave to act as God 
should show her how. 


FAITE GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 257 


Slie heard, presently, Mr. Eushleigh’s voice in the mill* 
yard, and then the staircase door closed and locked below. 
Thinking that he should be here no more, to-night, he had 
shut and fastened it. 

It was no matter. She would go through the mill, by* 
and-by, and look at the looms; and so out, and over the 

river, then, to Aunt Faith’s. 

22 * 


CHAPTER XXVIIL 


LOCKED IN. 

“ How idle it is to call certain things godsends ! as if there were any- 
thing else in the world.” Hare. 


It is accounted a part of the machinery of invention 
when, in a story, several coincident circumstances, that apart, 
would have had no noticeable result, bear down together, 
with a nice and sure calculation upon some catastrophe or 
denouement that develops itself therefrom. 

Does not God work out our human fate by the bee-lines 
of His Providence ? Erom points afar and seemingly sep- 
arate, the threads of agency begin. And, straight to one 
fore-ordered purpose, move on, undeviatingly, as we trace 
them, to the converging point, where the divine meaning 
and plan shall be consummated. 

God, — let it be said reverently, — is the Great Novelist, 
and Architect of circumstance. When we see the lives of 
men, that he writes out daily, in actual fact, about us, can 
we think, for an instant, that our poor imagining and con- 
triving can go beyond His infinite possibilities, — His hourly 
accomplishments^ Can transcend, by any ingenuity, His 
groupings and combinings, when a thing is willed to be ? 

Last night, a man, — an employe in Mr. Rushleigh’s fac- 
tory, — had been kept awake by one of his children, taken 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 259 


suddenly ill. A slight matter, — hut it has to do with our 
story. 

Last night, also. Faith, — Paul’s second letter just re- 
ceived, — had lain sleepless for hours, fighting the old battle 
over, darkly, of doubt, pity, half-love, and indecision. She 
had felt, or had thought she felt, — thus, or so, — in the 
days that were past. Why could she not be sure of her 
feeling now? 

The new wine in the old bottles, — the new cloth in the 
old garment, — these, in Faith’s life, were at variance. 
What satisfied once, satisfied no longer. Was she to blame? 
What ought she to do ? There was a seething — a rending. 
Poor heart, that was likely to be burst and torn, — won- 
deringly, helplessly, ■ — in the half-comprchended struggle ! 

So it happened, that, tired with all this, sore with its 
daily pressure and recurrence, this moment of strange peace 
came over her, and soothed her into rest. 

She laid herself back, there, on the broad, soft, old-fash- 
ioned sofa, and with the river breeze upon her brow, and the 
song of its waters in her ea*rs, and the deadened hum of 
the factory rumbling on, — she fell asleep. 

A heavy sleep it was ; as if some waiting angel bore her 
soul away, away, — far off from all earthly sound and asso- 
ciation, — and left her body there to utter rest. 

And so, — strangely, perhaps, but it was so, — the fac- 
tory-bell, at the far end of the long building, sent its clang 
out on the air that seized and bore it from the river, and 
the busy operatives hurried out from their place of toil, 
and streamed in long lines homeward, and the rumbling 
hushed, and left only the noise of falling and rushing 
waters in her ears, — and still Faith slumbered on. 

IIow long it had been, she could not tell ; she knew not 


260 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


whether it were evening, or midnight, or near the morning ; 
hut she felt cold and cramped ; everything save the busy 
river was still, and the daylight was all gone, and stars out 
bright in the deep, moonless sky, when she awoke. 

Awoke, bewilderedly, and came slowly to the comprehen- 
sion that she was here alone. That it was night, — that 
nobody could know it, — that she was locked up here, in 
the great dreary mill. 

She raised herself upon the sofa and sat in a terrified 
amaze. She took out her watch, and tried to see, by the 
starlight, the time. The slender black hands upon its 
golden face were invisible. It ticked, — it was going. She 
knew, by that, it could not be far beyond midnight, at the 
most. She was chilly, in her white dress, from the night 
air. She went to the open window, and looked out from it, 
before she drew it down. Away, over the fields, and up 
and down the river, all was dark, solitary. 

Nobody knew it, — she was here alone. 

She shut the window, softly, afraid of the sounds her- 
self might make. She opened the double doors from the 
counting-room, and stood on the outer threshold, and looked 
into the mill. The heavy looms were still. They stood 
like great, dead creatures, smitten in the midst of busy 
motion. There was an awfulness in being here, the only 
breathing, moving thing, — in darkness, — where so lately 
had been the deafening hum of rolling wheels, and clanking 
shafts, and flying shuttles, and busy, moving human figures. 
It was as if the world itself were stopped, and she forgotten 
on its mighty, silent corse. 

Should she find her way to the great bell, ring it, and 
make an alarm ? She thought of this ; and then she reasoned 
with herself that she was hardly so badly off, as to justify 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 261 


her, quite, in doing that. It would rouse the village, it 
would bring Mr. Eushleigh down, perhaps, — it would 
cause a terrible alarm. And all that she might be spared 
a few hours longer of loneliness and discomfort. She was 
safe. It would soon be morning. The mill would be opened 
early. She would go back to the sofa, and try to sleep 
again. Nobody could be anxious about her. The Eush- 
leighs supposed her to be at Cross Comers. Her aunt 
would think her detained at Lakeside. It was really no 
great matter. She would be brave, and quiet. 

So she shut the double doors again, and found a coat of 
Paul’s, or Mr. Eushleigh’s, in the closet of the counting- 
room, and lay down upon the sofa, covering herself with 
that. 

For an hour or more, her heart throbbed, her nerves were 
excited, she could not sleep. But at last she grew calmer, 
her thought wandered from her actual situation, — became 
indistinct, — and slumber held her again, dreamily. 

There was another sleeper, also, in the mill whom Faith 
knew nothing of. 

Michael Garvin, the night-watchman, — the same whose 
child had been ill the night before, — when Faith came out 
into the loom-chamber, had left it but a few minutes, going 
his silent round within the building, and recording his faith- 
fulness by the half-hour pin upon the watch-clock. Six 
times he had done this, already. It was half-past ten. 

He had gone up, now, by the stairs from the weaving- 
room, into the third story. These stairs ascended at the 
front, from within the chamber. 

Michael Garvin went on nearly to the end of the room 
above, — stopped, and looked out at a window. All still, 
all safe apparently. 


262 FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD. 


He was very tired. What harm in lying down some- 
where in a corner, for five minutes ? He need not shut his 
eyes. He rolled his coat up for a pillow, and threw it 
against the wall beneath the window. The next instant 
he had stretched his stalwart limbs along the floor, and 
before ten minutes of his seventh half hour were spent, — 
long before Faith, who thought herself all alone in the great 
building, had lost consciousness of her strange position, — 
he was fast asleep. 

Fast asleep, here, in the third story ! 

So, since the days of the disciples, men have grown 
heavy and fo^otten their trust. So they have slumbered ^ 
upon decks, at sea. So sentinels have lain down at picket- 
posts, though they knew the purchase of that hour of rest 
might be the leaden death ! 

Faith Gartney dreamed, uneasily. 

She thought herself wandering, at night, through the 
deserted streets of a great city. She seemed to have come 
from somewhere afar off, and to have no place to go to. 

Up and down, through avenues sometimes half familiar, 
sometimes wholly unknown, she went wearily, without aim, 
or end, or hope. “ Tired ! tired ! tired ! ” she seemed to 
say to herself. “ Nowhere to rest, — nobody do take care 
of me ! ” 

Then, — city, streets, and houses disappeared ; the scenery 
of her dream rolled away, and opened out, and she was 
standing on a high, bare cliff, away up in wintry air ; threat- . 
ening rocky avalanches overhanging her, — chill winds 
piercing her, — and no pathway visible downward. Still 
crying out in loneliness and fear. Still with none to com- 
fort or to help. 

Standing on the sheer edge of the precipice, — behind 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 263 


her, suddenly, a crater opened. A hissing breath came up, 
and the chill air quivered and scorched about her. Her 
feet were upon a volcano ! A lake of boiling, molten stone 
heaved, — huge, brazen, bubbling, — spreading wider and 
wider, like a great earth-ulcer, eating in its own brink con- 
tinually. Up in the air over her, reared a vast, sulphur- 
ous canopy of smoke. The narrowing ridge beneatL her 
feet burned, — trembled. She hovered between two de- 
structions. 

Instantly, — in that throbbing, agonizing moment of her 
dream, just after which one wakes, — she felt a presence, — 
she heard a call, — she thought two arms were stretched 
out toward her, — there seemed a safety and a rest near by ; 
she was borne by an unseen impulse, along the dizzy ridge 
that her feet scarce touched, toward it ; she was taken, — 
folded, held ; smoke, fire, the threatening danger of the cliff, 
were nothing, suddenly, any more. Whether they menaced 
still, she thought not ; a voice she knew and trusted was in 
her ear ; a grasp of loving strength sustained her ; she was 
utterly secure. 

So vividly she felt the presence, — so warm and sure 
seemed that love and strength about her, — that waking out 
of such pause of peace, before her senses recognized any- 
thing that was real without, she stretched her hands, as if 
to find it at her side, and her lips breathed a name, — the 
name of Eoger Armstrong. 

^ Then she started to her feet. The kind, protecting pres- 
ence faded back into her dream. 

The horrible smoke, the scorching smell, were true. 

A glare smote sky and trees and water, as she saw them 
from 'the window. 

There was fire near her I 


2G4 FAITH GARTFEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


Could it be among the buildings of the mill ? 

The long, main structure ran several feet beyond the 
square projection within which she stood. Upon the other 
side, close to the front, quite away, of course, from all obser- 
vation hence, joined, at right angles, another building, 
communicating and forming one with the first. Here were 
the carding rooms. Then beyond, detached, were houses 
for storage and other purposes connected with the business. 

Was it from one of these the glare and smoke and suffo- 
cating burning smell were pouring ? 

Or, lay the danger nearer, — within these close, contigu- 
ous walls ? 

Vainly she threw up the one window, and leaned forth. 

She could not tell. 

At this moment, Koger Armstrong, also, woke from out a 
dream. 

In this strange, second life of ours, that replaces the life 
of day, do we not meet interiorly ? Do not thoughts and 
knowledges cross, from spirit to spirit, over the abyss, that 
lip, and eye, and ear, in waking moments, neither send nor 
receive? That even mind itself is scarcely conscious of ? 
Is not the great deep of being, wherein we rest, electric with 
a sympathetic life, — and do not warnings and promises and 
cheer pulse in upon us, mysteriously, in these passive hours 
of the flesh, when soul only is awake and keen ? 

Do not two thoughts, two consciousnesses, call and answer 
to each other, mutely, in twin dreams of night ? 

Roger Armstrong came in,* late, that evening, from a visit 
to a distant sick parishioner. Then he sat, writing, for an 
hour or two longej. 

By-and-by he threw down his pen, — pushed back hia 


FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD, 265 


arm-cliair before his window, — stretched his feet, wearily, 
into the deep, old-fashioned window-seat, — leaned his head 
back, and let the cool breeze stir his hair. 

So it soothed him into sleep. 

He dreamed of Faith. He dreamed he saw her stand, 
afar off, in some solitary place, and beckon, as it were, visibly, 
from a wide, invisible distance. He dreamed he struggled 
to obey her summons. He battled with the strange inertia 
of sleep. He strove, — he gasped, — he broke the spell 
and hastened on. He plunged, — he climbed, — he stood 
in a great din that bewildered and threatened ; there was a 
lurid light that glowed intense about him as he went ; in 
the midst of all, — beyond, — she beckoned still. 

“ Faith ! Faith ! What danger is about you, child ? ” 

These words broke forth from him aloud, as he started to 
his feet, and stretched his hands, impulsively, out before 
him, toward the open window. 

His eyes flashed wide upon that crimson glare that flooded 
sky and field and river. 

There was fire at the mills ! 

Not a sound, yet, from the sleeping village. 

The heavy, close-fitting double doors between the count- 
ing-room and the great mill-chamber were shut. Only by 
^opening these and venturing forth, could Faith gain certain 
knowledge of her situation. 

Once .more she pulled them open and passed through. 

A blinding smoke i ashed jjhick about her, and made her 
gasp for breath. Up ihrough- the belt-holes in the floor, 
toward the farther end of the long room, sprang little 
tongues of flame that leaped higher and higher, even while 
she strove for sight, that single, horrified, suffocating instant, 
23 


2G6 FAITH GAETNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


and gleamed, mockingly, upon the burnished shafts of silent 
looms. 

In at the windows on the left, came the vengeful shine 
of those other windows, at right angles, in the adjacent 
building. The carding-rooms, and the whole front of the 
mill, below, were all in flames ! 

In frantic affright, in choking agony. Faith dashed herself 
back through the heavy doors, that swung on springs, and 
closed tightly once more after her. 

Here, at the open window, she took breath. Must she 
wait here, helpless, for the flery death ? 

Down below her, the ^narrow brink. — the rushing river. 
No foothold, — no chance for a descent. Behind her, only 
those two doors, barring out flame and smoke ! 

And the little foot-bridge, lying in the light across the 
water, and the green fields, stretching away, cool and safe 
beyond. A little farther. — her home ! 

“ Fire I ” 

She cried the fearful word out upon the night, uselessly. 
There was no one near. The village slumbered on, away 
there to the left. The strong, deep shout of a man might 
reach it, but no tone of hers. There were no completed or 
occupied dwelling-houses, as yet, about the new mills. Mr. 
Rushleigh was putting up some blocks ; but, for the present, 
there was nothing nearer than the village proper of Kinni- 
cutt on the one hand, and as far, or farther, on the other 
(he houses at Lakeside. 

The flames themselves, alone, could signal her danger, and 
summon help. How long would it be first ? 

Thoughts of father, mother, and little brother, — thoughts 
of the kind friends at Lakeside, parted from but a few hours 
before, — thoughts of the young lover to whom the answer 


FAITH GARTNEYH GIRLHOOD. 267 


he waited for should he given, perhaps, so awfully ; — 
through all, lighting, as it were, suddenly and searchingly, 
the deep places of her own soul, the thought, — the feeling,- 
rather, of that presence in her dream ; of him who had led 
her, taught her, lifted her so, to high things; — brought 
her nearer, by his ministry, to God ! Of all human influ- 
ence or love, his was nearest and strongest, spiritually, to 
her,- now ! 

All at once, across these surging, crowding, agonizing 
feelings, rushed an inspiration for the present moment. 

The water-gate ! The force-pump ! 

The apparatus for working these lay at this end of the 
building. She had been shown the method of its operation ; 
they had explained to her its purpose. It was perfectly 
simple. Only the drawing of a rope over a pulley, — the 
turning of a faucet. She could do it, if she could only 
reach the spot. • 

Instantly and strangely, the cloud of terror seemed to roll 
away. Her faculties cleared. Her mind was all alert and 
quickened. She thought of things she had heard of years 
before, and long forgotten. That a wet cloth about the face 
would defend from smoke. That down low, close to the 
floor, was always a current of fresher air. 

She turned a faucet that supplied a basin in the counting- 
rdom, held her handkerchief to it, and saturated it with water. 
Then she tied it across her forehead, letting it hang before 
her face like a veil. She caught a fold of- it between her 
teeth. 

And so, opening the doors between whose cracks the pent- 
up smoke was curling, she passed through, crouching down, 
and crawled along the end of the chamber, toward the great 
rope in the opposite corner. 


263 FAITH GAETHFT’S GIRLHOOD. 


The fire was creeping thitherward, also, to meet her. 
Along from the frCnt, down the chamber on the opposite side, 
the quick flames sprang and flashed, momently higher, catch- 
ing already, here and there, from point to point, where an 
oiled belt or an unfinished web of cloth attracted their hun- 
gry tongues. 

As yet, they were like separate skirmishers, sent out in 
advance ; their mighty force not yet gathered and rolled 
together in such terrible sheet and volume as raged beneath. 

She reached the corner where hung the rope. 

Close by, was the faucet in the main pipe fed by the 
force-pump. Underneath it, lay a coil of hose, attached 
and ready. 

She turned the faucet, and laid hold of the long rope. 
A few pulls, and she heard the dashing of the water far 
below. The great wheel was turning. 

The pipes filled. She lifted the end of the coiled hose, 
and directed it toward the forward part of the chamber, 
where flames were wreathing, climbing, flashing. An im- 
petuous column of water rushed, eager, hissing, upon 
blazing wood and heated iron. 

Still keeping the hose in her grasp, she crawled back 
again, half stifled, yet a new hope of life aroused within 
her, to the double doors. Before these, with the little 
counting-room behind her, as her last refuge, she took her 
stand. 

How long could she fight off death ? Till help came ? 

. All this had been done and thought quickly. There 
had been less time than she would have believed, since she 
first woke to the knowledge of this, her horrible peril. 

The flames were already repulsed. The mill was being 
flooded. Down the belt-holes the water poured upon the 


FAITH GARTNFT^S GIRLHOOD. 269 


fiercer blaze below, that swept across tbe forward and cen- 
tral part of tbe great spinning-room, from side to side. 

At this moment, a cry, close at hand. 

“ Fire ! ” 

A man was swaying by a rope, down from a third-story 
window. 

“ Fire ! ” came again, instantly, from without, upon 
another side. 

It was a voice hoarse, excited, strained. A tone Faith 
had never heard before; yet she knew, by a mysterious 
intuition, from whom it came. She dropped the hose, still 
pouring out its torrent, to the floor, and sprang back, 
through the doors, to the counting-room window. The 
voice came from the river-side. 

A man was dashing down the green slope, upon the foot- 
bridge. 

Faith stretched her arms out, as a child might, wakened 
in pain and terror. A cry, in which were uttere*d the fear, 
the horror, that were now flrst fully felt, as a possible 
safety appeared, and the joy, that itself came like a sudden 
pang, escaped her, piercingly, thrillingly. 

Eoger Armstrong looked upward as he sprang upon the 
bridge. 

He caught the cry. He saw Faith stand there, in her 
white dress, that had been wet and blackened in her bat- 
tling with the Are. 

A great soul-glance of courage and resolve flashed from 
his eyes. He reached his uplifted arms toward her, 
answering hers. He uttered not a word. 

“ Eound ! round ! ” cried Faith. “ The door upon the 
other side ! ” 

Eoger Armstrong, leaping to the spot, and Michael Gar- 
23 * 


270 FAITH GAFTHFT’S GIRLHOOD. 


vin, escaped by tbe long rope that hung vibrating from hia 
grasp, down the brick wall of the building, met at the 
staircase door. 

“ Help me drive that in ! ” cried the minister. 

• And the two men threw their stalwart shoulders against 
the barrier, forcing lock and hinges. 

Up the stairs rushed Ebger Armstrong. 

Answering the crash of the falling door, came another 
and more fearful crash within. 

Gnawed by the fire, the timbers and supports beneath 
the forward portion of the second floor had given way, 
and the heavy looms that stood there had gone plunging 
down. A horrible volume of smoke and steam poured 
upward, with the flames, from out the chasm, and rushed, 
resistlessly, everywhere. 

Eoger Armstrong dashed into the little counting-room. 
Faith lay there, on the floor. At that fearful crash, that 
rush of suffocating smoke, she had fallen, senseless. He 
seized her, frantically, in his arms to bear her down. 

“ Faith ! Faith ! ” he cried, when she neither spoke nor 
moved. “ My darling ! Are you hurt ? Are you killed ? 
Oh, my God ! must there be another ? ” 

Faith did not hear these words, uttered with all the 
passionate agony of a man who would hold the woman he 
loves to his heart, and defy for her even death. 

She came to herself in the open air. She felt herself in 
his arms. She only heard him say, tenderly and anxiously, 
in something of his old tone, as her consciousness returned, 
and he saw it, — 

“ My dear child ! ” 

But she knew then all that had been a mystery to hei 
in herself before. 


FAITH GAMTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 271 


She knew that she loved Eoger Armstrong. That it was 
not a love of gratitude and reverence, only ; hut that her 
very soul was rendered up to him, involuntarily, as a 
woman renders herself hut once. That she would rather 
have died there, in that flame and smoke, held in his 
arms, — gathered to his heart, — than have lived whatever 
life of ease and pleasantness, — aye, even of use, — with 
any other I She knew that her thought, in those terrible 
moments .before he came, had been, — not, father’s or 
mother’s, only ; not her young lover, Paul’s ; but, deepest 
and mostly, his ! 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


HOME. 


The joy that knows there is a joy— 

That scents its breath, and cries, ’tis there f 
And, patient in its pure repose, 
lleceiveth so the holier share. 


Faith’s thought and courage saved the mill from uttei 
destruction. 

For one fearful moment, when that forward portion of 
the loom-floor fell through, and flame, and vapor, and 
smoke rioted together in a wild alliance of fury, all seemed 
lost. But the great water-wheel was plying on ; the river 
fought the fire ; the rushing, exhaustless streams were 
pouring out and down, cverywheref ; and the crowd that in 
a few moments after the first alarm, and Faith’s rescue, 
gathered at the spot, found its work half done. 

A little later, there were only sullen smoke, defeated, 
smouldering fires, blackened timbers, the burned carding- 
rooms, and the ruin at the front, to tell the awful story of 
the night. 

Mr. Armstrong had carried Faith into one of the unfin- 
ished factory houses. Here he was obliged to leave her 
for a few moments, after making such a rude couch for her 
as was possible, with a pile of clean shavings, and his own 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 273 


coat, which he insisted, against all her remonstrances, upon 
spreading above them. 

“ The first horse and vehicle which comes. Miss Faith, I 
shall impress for your service,” he said ; “ and to do that I 
must leave you. I have made that frightened watchman 
promise to say nothing, at present, of your being here ; so 
I trust the crowd may not annoy you. I shall not be gone 
long, nor far away.” 

The first horse and vehicle which came was the one that 
had brought her there in the afternoon but just past, yet 
that seemed, strangely, to have been so long ago. 

Mr. Eushleigh found her lying here, quiet, amid the 
growing tumult, — exhausted, patient, waiting. 

“ My little Faithie ! ” he cried, coming up to her with 
hands outstretched, and a quiver of strong feeling in his 
voice. “ To think that you should have been in this hor- 
rible danger, and we all lying in our beds, asleep ! I do 
not quite understand it all. You must tell me, by-and-by. 
Armstrong has told me what you have done. You have 
saved me half my property here, — do you know it, child ? 
Can I ever thank you for your courage ? ” 

“ Oh, Mr. Eushleigh !” cried Faith, rising as he came to 
her, and holding her hands to his, “ don’t thank me ! and 
don’t wait here ! They ’ll want you, — - and, oh ! my kind 
friend! there will be nothing to thank me for, when I 
have told you what I must. I have been very near to death, 
and I have seen life so clearly 1 I. know now what I did 
not know yesterday, — what I could not answer you then 1 ” 

“ Let it be as it may, I am sure it will be right and true^ 
and I shall honor you. Faith 1 And we must bear what is, 
for it has come of the will of God, and not by any fault of 
yours. Now, let me take you home.” 


274 FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD. 


“ May I do that in your stead, Mr. Eushleigh ? ” asked 
Roger Armstrong, who entered at this moment, with gar- 
ments he had brought from somewhere to wrap Faith. 

“ I must go home,” said Faith. “To Aunt Henderson’s.” 

“You shall do as you like,” answered Mr. Eushleigh. 
“ But it belongs to us to care for you, I think.” 

“You do, — you have cared for me already,” said Faith, 
earnestly. 

And Mr. Eushleigh helped to wrap her up, and kissed 
her forehead tenderly, and Roger Armstrong lifted her into 
the chaise, and seated himself by her, and drove her away 
from out the smoke and noise and curious crowd that had 
begun to find out she was there, and that she had been shut 
up in the mill, and had saved herself and stopped the fire ; 
and would have made her as uncomfortable as crowds 
always do heroes or heroines, — had it not been for the 
friend beside her, whose foresight and precaution had 
varded it all ofi*. 

And the mill-owner went back among the villagers and 
•firemen, to direct their efforts for his property. 

Glory McWhirk had been up and watching the great fire, 
since Roger Armstrong first went out. 

She had seen it from the window of Miss Henderson’s 
room, where she was to sleep to-night ; and had first care- 
fully lowered the blinds lest the light should waken lier 
mistress, who, after suffering much pain, had at length, by 
the help of an anodyne, fallen asleep ; and then she had 
come round softly to the southwest room, to call the minister. 

The door ^tood open, and she saw him sitting in his 
chair, asleep. Just as she crossed the threshold to come 
toward him, ne started, and spoke those words out of his 
restless dream. 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 275 


“ Taith ! Faitli ! What danger is about you, child? ” 

They were instinct with his love. They were eager 
with his visionary fear. It only needed a human heart 
to interpret them. 

Glory drew back as he sprang to his feet, and noiselessly 
disappeared. She would not have him know that she had 
heard this cry with which he waked. 

“ He dreamed about her ! and he called her Faith. How 
beautiful it is to be cared for so ! ” 

Glory, — while we have so long been following Faith, — 
had no less been living on her own, peculiar, inward life, 
that reached to, that apprehended, that seized ideally, — 
that was denied, so much ! 

God leads gome through life toward Himself, as a mother 
wins a child, making its first feeble steps ; with good held 
always in sight, and always out beyond the grasp. There 
are those, who perceiving, longing, falling short, continually 
put off, still struggle on and keep the best in view. There 
are those again, who sit down, tamely, by the way, and 
turn to some inferior, easy joy. 

As Glory had seen, in the old years, children happier than 
herself, wearing beautiful garments, and “hair that was 
let to grow,” she saw those about her now whom life en- 
folded with a grace and loveliness she might not look for ; 
about whom fair affections, “ let to grow, ” clustered radi- 
ant, and enshrined them in their light. 

She saw always something that was beyond ; something 
she might not attain ; yet, expectant of nothing, but blindly 
true to the highest within her, she lost no glimpse of the 
greater, through lowering herself to the less. 

Her soul of womanhood asserted itself; longing, igno- 
rantly, for a soul love. “ To be cared for, so ! ” 


276 FAITH GARTNFF^S GIRLHOOD, 


But slie would rather recognize it afar, — rather haT e her 
joy in knowing the joy that might he, — than shut herself 
from knowledge in the content of a common, sordid lot. 

She did not think this deliberately, however ; it was not 
reason, but instinct. She renounced unconsciously. She 
bore denial, and never knew she was denied. 

Of course, the thought of daring to covet what she saw, 
had never crossed her, in her humbleness. It was quite 
away from her. It was something with which she had 
nothing to do. “ But it must be beautiful to be like Miss 
Faith.” And she thanked God, mutely, that she had this 
beautiful life near her, and could look on it every day. 

She could not marry Luther Goodell. 

“ A vague unrest 

And a nameless longing fiUed her breast j ” 

But, unlike the maiden of the ballad, she could not smother 
it down, to break forth, by-and-by, defying the “burden of 
life,” in sweet bright vision, grown to a keen torture then. 

Faith had read to her this story of Maud, one day. 

“ I should n’t have done -so,” she had said, when it was 
ended. I ’d rather have kept that one minute under the 
apple-trees to live on all the rest of my days ! ” 

She could not marry Luther Goodell. 

Would it have been better that she should? That she 
should have gone down from her dreams into a plain man’s 
life, and made a plain man happy? Some women, of far 
higher mental culture and social place, have done this, and, 
seemingly, done well. Only God and their own hearts know 
if the seeming be true. 

Glory waited. “Everybody needn’t marry,” she said. 

This night, with those words of Mr. Armstrong’s in her 


FAITH GARTNEYH GIRLHOOD. 277 


ears, revealing to her so much, she stood before that window 
of his and watched the fire. 

Doors were open behind her, leading through to Miss 
Henderson’s chamber. She would hear her mistress if she 
stirred. • 

If she had known what she did not know, — that Faith 
G artney stood at this moment in that burning mill, looking 
forth despairingly on those bright waters and green fields 
that lay between it and this home of hers, — that were so 
near her, she might discern each shining pebble and the 
separate grass-blades in the scarlet light, yet so infinitely far, 
so gone from her forever, — had she known all this, with- 
out knowing the help and hope that were coming, — she 
would yet have said “ How beautiful it would be to be like 
Miss Faith!” 

She watched the fire till it began to deaden, and the 
glow paled out into the starlight. 

By-and-by, up from the direction of the river-road, she 
saw a chaise approaching. It was stopped at the corner, 
by the bar-place. Two figures descended from it, and 
entered upon the field-path through the stile. 

One, — yes, — it was surely the minister ! The other, 
— a woman. Who ? 

Miss Faith ! 

Glory met them upon the door-stone. 

Faith held her finger up. 

“ I was afraid of disturbing my aunt,” said she. 

“ Take care of her. Glory,” said her companion. “ She 
has l^een in frightful danger.” 

‘‘ At the fire 1 And you — ” 

“ I was there in time, thank God I ” spoke Eoger Arm- 
strong, from his soul. 

24 


278 FAITH GAETNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


The two girls passed through to the blue bedroom, 
softly. 

Mr. Armstrong went back to the mills again, with horse 
and chaise. 

Glory shut the bedroom door. 

“ Why, you are all wet, and draggled, and smoked ! ** 
said she, taking off Faith’s outer, borrowed garments. 
“ What has happened to you, — and how came you there. 
Miss Faith ? ” 

“ I fell asleep in the counting-room, last evening, and 
got locked in. I was coming home. I can’t tell you now. 
Glory. I don’t dare to think it all over, yet. And we 
must n’t let Aunt Faith know that I am here.” 

These sentences they spoke in whispers. 

Glory asked no more ; but brought warm water, and 
bathed and rubbed Faith’s feet, and helped her to undress, 
and put her night-clothes on, and covered her in bed with 
blankets, and then went away softly to the kitchen, whence 
she brought back, presently, a cup of hot tea, and a bis- 
cuit. 

“ Take these, please,” she said. 

“ I don’t think I can. Glory. I don’t want anything.” 

“ But he told me to take care of you. Miss Faith ! ” 

That, also, had a power with Faith. Because he had 
said that, she drank the tea, and then lay back, — so 
tired I 

“I waited up till you came, sir, because I thought you 
would like to know,” said Glory, meeting Mr. Armstrong 
once more upon the door-stone, as he returned a second 
time from the fire. “ She’s gone to sleep, and is resting 
beautiful I ” 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 27S 

You are a good girl, Glory, and I thank you,” said the 
minister ; and he put his hand forth, and grasped hers as 
he spoke. “ Now go to bed, and rest, yourself.” 

It was reward enough. 

From the plenitude that waits on one life, falls <a crumb 
that stays the craving of another. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


AUNT UENDEKSON’s MYSTERY. 


“ Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, 
And I said in uuderbreath, — All our life is mixed with death, 
And who kuoweth which is best ? 


“ Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, 

And 1 smiled to think God’s greatness flowed around our incomplete* 
ness, — 

Bound our restlessness, His rest.” 

Mrs. Browning. 


“ So the dreams depart. 

So the fading phantoms flee. 

And the sharp reality 
Now must act its part.” 

Westwood. 

It was a little after noon of the next day, when Mr. 
Rushleigh came* to Cross Corners. 

Faith was lying hack, quite pale, and silent, — feeling 
very weak after the terror, excitement, anfl fatigue she had 
gone through, — in the large easy-chair which had been 
brought for her into the southeast room. Miss Henderson 
had been removed from her bed to the sofa here, and the 
two were keeping each other quiet company. Neither 
could bear the strain of nerve to dwell , long or particularly 
on the events of the night. The story had been told, as 
simply as it might be ; and the rest and the thankfulness 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 281 


were all they could think of now. So there were deep 
thoughts and few words between them. On Faith’s part, a 
patient waiting for a trial yet before her. 

“ It ’s Mr. Eushleigh, come over to see Miss Faith. 
Shall I bring him in ? ” asked Glory, at the door. 

“ Will you mind it, aunt ? ” asked Faith. 

“ I ? No,” said Miss Henderson. “ Will you mind my 
being here ? That ’s the question. I ’d take myself off, 
without asking, if I could, you know.” 

“Dear Aunt Faith ! There is something I have to say 
to Mr. Eushleigh which will be very hard to say, but no 
more so because you will be by to hear it. It is better so. 
I shall only have to say it once. I am glad you should be 
with me.” 

“ Brave little Faithie ! ” said Mr. Eushleigh, coming in 
with hands outstretched. “ Not ill, I hope ? ” 

“ Only tired,” Faith answered. “ And a little weak, 
and foolish,” as the tears would come, in answer to his cor- 
dial words. 

“I am sorry. Miss Henderson, that I could not have 
persuaded this little girl to go home with me last night, — 
this morning, rather. But she would come to you.” 

“ She did^ just right,” Aunt Faith replied. “ It ’s the 
proper place for her to come to. Not but that we thank 
you all the same. You ’re very kind.” 

“.Kinder than I have deserved,” whispered Faith, as he 
took his seat beside her. 

Mr. Eushleigh would not let her lead him that way yet. 
He ignored the little whisper, and by a gentle question or 
two drew from Her that which he had come, especially, to 
learn and speak of to-day, — the story of the fire, and her 
own knowledge of, and share in it, as she alone could tell it 
24 * 


282 FAITE- GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD, 


Now, for the first time, as she recalled it to explain her 
motive for entering the mill at all, the rough conversation 
she had overheard between the two men upon the river bank, 
suggested to Faith, as the mention of it was upon her lips, 
a possible clue to the origin of the mischief. She paused, 
suddenly, and a look of dismayed hesitation came over her 
face. 

“ I ought to tell you all, I suppose,” she continued. “ But 
pray, sir, do not conclude anything hastily. The two things 
may have had nothing to do with each other.” 

And then, reluctantly, she repeated the angry threat that 
had come to her ears. ^ 

Pausing, timidly, to look up in her listener’s face, to 
judge of its expression, a smile there surprised her. 

“ See how truth is always best,” said Mr. Kushleigh. “ If 
you had kept back your knowledge of this, you would have 
sealed up a painful doubt for your own tormenting. That 
man, James Began, came to me this morning. There is 
good in the fellow, after all. He told me, just as you have, 
and as Hardy did, the words he spoke in passion. He was 
afraid, he said, they might be brought up against him. And 
so he came to ‘ own up,’ and account for his time ; and to 
beg me to believe that he never had any definite thought of 
harm. I told him I did believe it ; and then the poor fel- 
low, rough as he is, turned pale, and burst into tears. Last 
night gave him a lesson, I think, that will go far to take the 
hardness out of him. Blasland says, ‘ he worked like five 
men and a horse,’ at the fire.” 

Faith’s face glowed as she listened, at the nobleness of 
these two ; of the generous, Christian gentleman, — of the 
coarse workman, who wore his nature, like his garb, — the 
worse part of an every-day. 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 283 


Fire and loss are not all calamity, when such as this 
comes of them. 

Her own recital was soon finished. 

Mr. Eushleigh listened, giving his whole sympathy to the 
danger she had faced, his fresh and fervent acknowledg- 
ment and admiring praise to the prompt daring she had 
shown, as if these things, and nought else, had been in 
either mind. 

At these thanks, — at this praise, — Faith shrank. 

“ Oh, Mr. Eushleigh ! ” she interrupted, with a low, pain- 
ed, humbled entreaty, — •* don’t speak so ! Only forgive me, 
— if you can ! ” 

Her hands lifted themselves with a slight, imploring 
gesture toward him. He laid his own upon them, gently, 
soothingly. 

“ I will not have you trouble or reproach yourself. Faith,” 
he answered, meeting her meaning, frankly, now. “ There 
are things beyond our control. All we can do is to be 
simply true. There is something, I know, which you think 
lies between us to be spoken of. Do not speak at all, if it 
be hard for you. — I will tell the boy that it was a mis- 
take — that it cannot be.” 

But the father’s lip was a little unsteady, to his own 
Reeling, as he said the words. 

“ Oh, Mr. Eushleigh ! ” cried Faith. “ If everything 
could only be put back as it was, in the old days before all 
this ! ” 

“ But that is what we can’t do. Nothing goes back pre- 
cisely to what it was before.” 

“No,” said Aunt Faith, from her sofa. “And never 
did, since the days of Humpty Dumpty. You might be 
glad to, but you can’t do it. Things must just be made 


284 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


the best of, as they are. And they ’re never just alike, two 
minutes together. They’re altering, and working, and 
going on, all the time. And that ’s a comfort, too, when 
you come to think of it.” 

“ There is always comfort, somehow, when there has been 
no wilful wrong. And there has been none here, I am sure.” 

Faith, with the half-smile yet upon her face, called there 
by her aunt’s quaint speaking, bent her head, and burst 
into tears. 

“I came to re-assure and to thank you. Faith — not to 
let you distress yourself so,” said Mr. Eushleigh. “ Mar- 
garet sent all kind messages ; but I would not bring her. 
I thought it would be too much for you, so soon. Another 
day, she will come. We shall always claim old friendship, 
my child, and remember our new debt ; though the old 
days themselves cannot quite be brought back again as 
they were. There may be better days, though, even, by- 
and-by.” 

“Let Margaret know, before she comes, please,” whis- 
pered Faith. “ I don’t think I could tell her.” 

“You shall not have a moment of trial that I can spare 
you. But — Paul will be content with nothing, as a final 
word, that does not come from you.” 

“ I will see him when he comes. I wish it. Oh, sir I I 
am so sorry ! ” 

“ And so am I, Faith. We must all be sorry. But we 
are only sorry. And that is all that need be said.” 

The conversation, after this, could not be prolonged. 
Mr. Eushleigh took his leave, kindly, as he had made his 
greeting. 

“ Oh, Aunt Faith ! What a terrible thing I have done ! ” 

“ What a terrible thing you came near doing, you mean, 


FAITH GAETNET’S GIRLHOOD. 285 


child ! Be thankful to the Lord, — He ’s delivered you 
from it ! And look well to the rest of your life, after all 
this. Out of fire and misery you must have been saved for 
something ! ” 

Then Aunt Faith called Glory, and told her to bring an 
egg, beat up in milk, — “to a good froth, mind; and 
sugared and nutmegged, and a teaspoonful of brandy 
in it.” 

This she made Faith swallow, and then bade her put her 
. feet up on the sofa, and lean back, and shut her eyes, and 
not speak another word till she ’d had a nap. 

All which, strangely enough, Faith, — wearied, troubled, 
yet relieved, — obeyed. 

For the next two days, what with waiting on the invalids, 
— for Faith was far from well, — and with answering the 
incessant calls at the door of curious people flocking to 
inquire. Glory McWhirk was kept busy and tired. But 
not with a thankless duty, as in the days gone by, that 
she remembered ; it was heart- work now, and brought 
heart-love as its reward. It was one of her “ real good 
times.” 

Mr. Armstrong talked and read with them, and gave 
hand-help and ministry also, just when it could be given 
most effectually. 

It was a beautiful lull of peace between the conflict that 
was past, and the final pang that was to come. Faith ac- 
cepted it with a thankfulness. Such joy as this was all 
life had for her, henceforth. There was no restlessness, no 
selfishness in the love that had so suddenly asserted itself, 
and home down all her doubts. She thought not of it, as 
love, any more. She never dreamed of being other to Mr. 
Armstrong than she was. Only, that other life had become 


286 FAITH GAETNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 

impossible to her. Here, if she might not elsewhere, she 
had gone back to the things that were. She could be quite 
content and happy, so. It was enough to rest in such a 
friendship. If only she had once seen Paul, and if he could 
but bear it ! 

And Koger Armstrong, of intent, was just what he had 
always been, — the kind and earnest friend, — the ready 
helper ; — no more. He knew Faith Gartney had a trouble 
to bear ; he had read her perplexity, — her indecision ; he 
had feared, unselfishly, for the mistake she was making. 
Miss Henderson had told him, now, in few, plain words, how 
things were ending ; he strove, in all pleasant and thought- 
ful ways, to soothe and beguile her from her harassment. 
He dreamed not how the light had come to her that had 
revealed to her the insufficiency of that other love. He laid 
his own love back, from his own sight. 

So, calmly, and with what peace they might, these hours 
went on. 

“ I want to see that Sampson woman,” said Aunt Faith, 
suddenly, to her niece, on the third afternoon of their being 
together. “ Do you think she would come over here if I 
should send for her? ” 

Faith flashed a surprised look of inquiry to Miss Hen- 
derson’s face. 

“ Why, aunt? ” she asked. 

“ Never mind why, child. I can’t tell you now. Of course 
it’s something, or I shouldn’t want her. Something I 
should like to know, and that I suppose she could tell me. 
Do you think she ’d come ? ” 

“ Why, yes, auntie. I don’t doubt it. I might write her 
a note.” 

“ I wish you would. Mr. Armstrong says he ’ll drive 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 287 


over. And I ’d like to have you do it right oflF. Now, don’t 
ask me another word about it, till she ’s been here.” 

Faith wrote the note, and Mr. Armstrong went away. 

Miss Henderson seemed to grow tired, to-day, after her 
dinner, and at four o’clock she said to Glory, abruptly, — 

“ I ’ll go to bed. Help me into the other room.” 

Faith offered to go too, and assist her. But her aunt said, 
no, she should do quite well with Glory. “And if the 
Sampson woman comes, send her in to me.” 

Faith was astonished, and a little frightened. 

What could it be that Miss Henderson wanted with the 
nurse? Was it professionally that she wished to see her? 
She knew the peculiar whim, or principle, Miss Sampson 
always ■ acted on, of never taking cases of common illness. 
She could not have sent for her in the hope of keeping her 
merely to wait upon her wants as an invalid, and relieve 
Glory ? Was her aunt aware of symptoms in herself, fore- 
tokening other or more serious illness ? 

Faith could only wonder, and wait. 

Glory came back, presently, into the southeast room, to 
say to Faith that her aunt was comfortable, and thought she 
should get a nap. But that whenever the nurse came, she 
was to be shown in to her. 

The next half-hour, that happened which drove even this 
thought utterly from Faith’s mind. 

Paul Bushleigh came. 

Faith lay, a little wearily, upon the couch her aunt had 
quitted ; and was thinking, at the very moment, — • with 
that sudden, breathless anticipation that sweeps over one, 
now and then, of a thing awaited apprehensively, — of 
whether this Saturday night would not probably bring him 
home, — when she caught the sound of a horse’s feet that 


288 FAITH GAHTNEY'S GIRLHOOD. 


stopped before tbe bouse, and then a man’s step upon the 
stoop. 

It was bis. Tbe moment bad come. 

Sbe sprang to ber feet. For an instant sbe would bave 
fled, — anywbitber. Then sbe grew strangely calm and 
strong. Sbe must meet bim quietly. Sbe must tell bim 
plainly. Tell bim, if need be, all sbe knew berself. He 
bad a right to all. 

Paul came in, looking grave ; and greeted ber with a 
gentle reserve. 

A moment, they stood there aS they bad met, sbe with 
face pale, sad, that dared not lift itself;, be, not trusting 
himself to tbe utterance of a word. 

But be bad come there, not to reproach, or to bewail ; not 
even to plead. To hear, — to bear with firmness, — what 
sbe bad to tell bim. And there was, in truth, a new strength 
and nobleness in look and tone, when, presently, be spoke. 

If be bad bad bis way, — if all bad gone prosperously 
with bim, — be would bave been, still, — recipient of bis 
father’s bounty, and accepted of bis childish love, — scarcely 
more than a mere, happy boy. This pain, this struggle, 
this first rebuff of life, crowned bim,'n, man. 

Faith might bave loved bim, now, if sbe bad so seen bim, 
first. \ 

Yet tbe hour would come when be should know that it 
bad been better as it was. That so be should grow to that 
which, otherwise, be bad never been. 

“ Faith I My father has told me. That it must be all over. 
That it was a mistake. I bave come to bear it from you.” 

Then be laid in her band bis father’s letter. 

“ This came with yours,” be said. “ After this, I ex- 
pected all tbe rest.” 


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CHAPTEK XXXL 


NURSE Sampson’s way op looking at it. 

“ I can believe, it shall you grieve, 

And somewhat you distrain ; 

But afterward, your paines hard, 

Within a day or twain. 

Shall soon aslake ; and ye shall take 
Comfort to you again.” 

Old English Ballad. 

Glory looked in, once, at the southeast room, and saw 
Faith lying, still with hidden face ; and went away softly, 
shutting the door behind her as she went. 

When Mr. Armstrong and Miss Sampson came, she met 
them at the front entrance, and led the nurse directly to 
her mistress, as she had been told. 

Mr. Armstrong betook himself to his own room. Perhaps 
the hollow Paul Rushleigh’s horse had pawed at the gate- 
post, and the closed door of the keeping-room, revealed 
something to his discernment that kept him from seeking 
Faith just then. 

There was a half-hour of quiet in the old house'. A quiet 
that overbrooded very much. 

'J'hen Nurse Sampson came out, with a look on her face 
that made Faith gaze upUh her with an awed feeling of 
expectation. She feared, suddenly, to ask a question. 


292 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD 


It was not a long-drawn look of sjmpatliy. It was not 
surprised, nor shocked, nor excited. It was a look of 
business. As if she knew of work before her to do. As 
if Nurse Sampson were in her own proper element, once 
more. 

Faith knew that something, — she could not guess what, 
— something terrible, she feared, — had happened, or was 
going to happen, to her aunt. 

It was in the softening twilight that Miss Henderson 
sent for her to come in. 

Aunt Faith leaned against her pillows, looking bright 
and comfortable, even cheerful; but there was a strange 
gentleness in look and word and touch, as she greeted the 
young girl who came to her bedside with a face that wore 
at once ks own subduedness of fresh-past grief, and a won- 
dering, loving apprehension of something to be disclosed 
concerning the kind friend who lay there, invested so with 
such new grace of tenderness. 

Was there a twilight, other than that of day, softening, 
also, around her? 

“ Little Faith f ’’ said Aunt* Henderson. Her very voice 
had taken an unwonted tone. 

“ Auntie ! It is surely something very grave ! Will you 
not tell me ? ” 

“Yes, child. I mean to tell you. It may be grave. 
Most things are, if we had the wisdom to see it. But it 
is n’t very dreadful. It ’s what I ’ve had warning enough 
of, and had mostly made up my mind to. But I was n’t 
quite sure. Now, I am. I suppose I ’ve got to bear some 
pain, and go through a risk that will be greater, at my 
years, than it would have been if I ’d been younger. And 
I may die. That ’s all.’* 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 293 


The words, of old habit, were abrupt. The eye and voice 
were tender with unspoken love. 

Faith turned to Miss Sampson, who sat by. 

“And then, again, she mayn’t,” said the nurse. “I 
shall stay and see her through. There’ll have to be an 
operation. At least, I think so. We ’ll have the doctor 
over, to-morrow. And now, if there ’s one thing more im- 
portant than another, it ’s to keep her cheerful. So, if 
you ’ve got anything bright and lively to say, speak out ! 
If not, keep out ! She ’ll do well enough, I dare say.” 

Poor Faith ! And, without this, new trouble, there was 
so much that she, herself, was needing comfort for ! 

“ You ’re a wise woman. Nurse Sampson. But you don’t 
know everything,” said Aunt Faith. “ The best thing to 
take people out of their own worries, is to go to work and 
find out how other folks’ worries are getting on. — He’s 
been here, has n’t he, child ? ” 

It was not so hard for Aunt Faith, who had home 
secretly, so long, the suspicion of what was coming, and 
had lived on, calmly, nevertheless, in her daily round, to 
turn thus from the announcement of her own state and pos- 
sible danger, to thought and inquiry for the afiairs of an- 
other, as it was for that other, newly apprised, and but 
half apprised, even, of what threatened, to leave the subject 
there, and answer. But she saw that Miss Henderson 
spoke only truth in declaring it was the best way to take 
her out of her worries ; she read Nurse Sampson’s look, and 
saw that she, at any rate, was quite resolved her patient 
should not be let to dwell longer on any painful or appre- 
hensive thought, and she put off all her own anxious ques- 
tionings, till she should see the nurse alone, and said in a 
low tone, — yes , Paul Rushleigh had been there. 

25 * 


294 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


“ And you ’ve told him the truth, like a woman, and he 'fl 
heard it like a man ? ” 

“I ’ve told him it must he given up. Oh, it was hard, 
auntie ! ” 

“ You need n’t worry. You ’ve done just the rightest 
thing you could do.” 

But it seems so selfish. As if my happiness were of so 
much more consequence than his. I ’ve made him so mis- 
erable, I ’m afraid ! ” ♦ 

‘‘ Miss Sampson! ” cried Aunt Faith, with all her old 
oddity and suddenness, “just tell this girl, if you know, 
what kind of a commandment a woman breaks, if she can’t 
make up her mind to marry the first man that asks her I 
’T aint in my Decalogue ! ” 

“ I can’t tell what commandment she won’t be likely to 
break, if she is n’t pretty sure of her own mind before she 
does marry! ” said Miss Sampson, energetically. “ Talk of 
making a man miserable ! Supposing you do for a little 
while ? ’T won’t last long. /Eight ’s right, and settles itself. 
Wrong never does. And there is n’t a greater wrong than 
to marry the wrong man. To him as well as to you. And 
it won’t end there, — that ’s the worst of it. There ’s more 
concerned than just yourself and him ; though you may n’t 
know how, or who. It ’s an awful thing to tangle up and dis- 
arrange the plans of Providence. And more of it ’s done, 
1 verily believe, in this matter of marrying, than any other 
way. It ’s like mismatching anything else, — gloves or 
stockings, — and wearing the wrong ones together. They 
don’t fit ; and more ’n that, it spoils another pair. I believe, 
as true as I live, if the angels ever do cry over this miserable 
^ world, it ’s when they see the souls they have paired off, all 
right, out of heaven, getting mixed up and mismated as they 


FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD. 295 

do down here I Why, it ’s fairly enough to account for all 
the sin and misery there is in the world ! If it was n’t for 
Adam and Eve and Cain, I should think it did ! ” 

“ But it’s very hard,” said Faith, smiling, despite all her 
saddening thoughts, at the characteristic harangue, “always 
to know wrong from right. People may make mistakes, if 
they mean ever so well.” 

“Yes, awful mistakes! There’s that poor, unfortunate 
woman in the Bible. I never thought the Lord meant any 
reflection by what he said, — on her. She ’d had six hus- 
bands. And he knew she had n’t got what she bargained 
for, after all. Most likely she never had, in the whole six. 
And if things had got into such a snarl as that eighteen hun- 
dred years ago, how. many people, do you think, by this time, 
are right enough in themselves to be right for anybody ? 
1 ’ve thought it all over, many a time. I ’ve had reasons of 
my own, and I ’ve seen plenty of reasons as I ’ve gone about 
the world. And my conclusion is, that matrimony ’s come 
to be more of a discipline, now-a-days, than anything else 1 ” 

It was strange cheer ; and it came at a strange moment ; 
with the very birth of a new anxiety. But so our moments 
and their influences are mingled. Faith was roused, 
strengthened, confirmed in her own thought of right, be- 
guiled out of herself, by the words of these two odd, plain- 
dealing women, as she would not have been if a score of 
half-comprehending friends had soothed her indirectly with 
inanities, and delicate half-handling of that which Aunt 
Faith and Nurse Sampson went straight to the heart of, and 
brought out, uncompromisingly, into the light. So much 
we can endure from a true earnestness and simplicity, rough 
and homely though it be, which would be impertinent and 
intolerable if it came but with surface- sympathy. 


29G FAITH GARTNEYIS GIRLHOOD. 


She had a word that night from Eoger Armstrong,, when 
he came, late in the evening, from a conversation with 
Aunt Faith, and found her at the open door upon the stoop. 
It was only a hand-grasp, and a fervent “ God bless you, . 
child! You have been brave and true ! ” and he passed on. 
But a balm and a quiet fell deep into her heart, and a tone, 
that was a joy, lingered in her ear, and comforted her as no 
other earthly comfort could. But this was not all earthly ; 
it lifted her toward heaven. It bore her toward the eternal 
solace there. 

Aunt Faith would have no scenes. She told the others, 
in turn, very much as she had told Faith, that a suffering 
and an uncertainty lay before her ; and then, by her next 
word and gesture, demanded that the life about her should 
go right on, taking as slightly as might be its coloring from 
this that brooded over her. Nobody had a chance to make 
a wail. There was something for each to do. 

Miss Henderson, by Nurse Sampson’s advice, remained 
- mostly in her bed. In fact, she had kept back the an- 
nouncement of this ailment of hers, just so long as she 
could resist its obvious encroachment. The twisted ancle 
had been, for long, a convenient explanation of more than 
its own actual disability. 

But it was not a sick-room, — one felt that, — this little 
limited bound in which her life was now visibly encircled.- 
All the cheer of the house was brought into it. If people 
were sorry and fearful, it was elsewhere. Neither Aunt 
Faitn nor the nurse would let anybody into “ their hospital,” 
as Miss Sampson said, “ unless they came with a bright 
look for a pass.” Every evening, the great Bible was opened 
there, and Mr. Armstrong read with them, and uttered for 
them words that lifted each heart, with its secret need and 


i'AITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD. 207 

thankfulness, to heaven. All together, trustfully, and tran- 
quilly, they waited, 

Dr. Wasgatt had been called in. Quite surprised he was, 
at this new development. He “ had thought there was 
something a little peculiar in her symptoms.” But he was 
one of those A5sculapian worthies who, having lived a scien- 
tifically uneventful life, plodding quietly along in his pro- 
fession among people who had mostly been ill after very 
ordinary fashions, and who required only the administering 
of stereotyped remedies, according to the old stereotyped 
order and ruD, had quite forgotten to think of the possi- 
bility of any unusual complications. If anybody ^ere 
taken ill of a colic, and sent for him and told him so, for » 
colic he prescribed, according to outward indications. The 
subtle signs that to a keener or more practised discern- 
ment, might have betokened more, he never thought of 
looking for. What then ? All cannot be genuises ; most 
men just learn a trade. It is only a Columbus who, by the 
drift along the shore of tj^e fact or continent he stands on, 
predicates another, far over, out of sight. 

Surgeons were to come out from Mishaumok to consult. 
Mr. and Mrs. Gartney would be home, now, in a day or two, 
and Aunt Faith preferred to wait till then. Mis’ Battis 
opened the Cross Corners house, and Faith went over, daily, 
to direct the ordering of things there. 

“Faith!” said Miss Henderson, on the Wednesday 
evening when they were to look confidently for the return 
of their travellers next day, “come here child! I have 
something t6 say to you.” 

Faith was sitting alone, there, with her aunt, in the 
twilight. 

“ There ’s one thing on my mind, that I ought to speak of, 


298 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 


as things have turned out. When I thought, a few weeks 
ago, that you were provided for, as far as outside havings go, 
I made a will, one day. Look in that right hand upper 
bureau drawer, and you ’ll find a key, with a brown ribbon 
to it. That ’ll unlock a black box on the middle shelf of 
the closet. Open it, and take out the paper that lies on the 
top, and bring it to me.” 

Faith did all this, silently. 

“ Yes, this is it,” said Miss Henderson, putting on her 
glasses, which were lying on the counterpane, and unfolding 
the single sheet, written out in her own round, upright, old- 
fashioned hand. “ It ’s an old woman’s whim ; but if you 
don’t like it, it shan’t stand. Nobody knows of it, and 
nobody ’ll be disappointed. I had a longing to leave some 
kind of a happy life* behind me, if I could, in the Old 
House. It ’s only an earthly clinging and hankering, may- 
be ; but I ’d somehow like to feel sure, being the last of the 
line, that there ’d be time for my bones to crumble away 
comfortably into dust, before the^old timbers should come 
down. I meant, once, you should have had it all ; but it 
seemed as if you was n’t going to need it, atid as if there 
was going to be other kind of work cut out for you to do. 
And I ’m persuaded there is yet, somewhere. So I ’ve done 
this ; and I want you to know it beforehand, in case any- 
thing goes wrong, — no, not that, but unexpectedly, — with 
me.” 

She reached out the paper, and Faith took it from her 
hand. It was not long in reading. 

A light shone out of Faith’s eyes, through the tears that 
sprang to them, as she finished it, and gave it back. 

“Aunt Faith!” she said, earnestly. “It is beautiful! 
I am so glad ! But, auntie ! You ’ll get wMl, I know, and 
begin it yourself ! ” 


FAITH GABTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 299 


“ No,” said Miss Henderson, quietly. “ I may get over 
tliis. and I don’t say I sliould n’t be glad to. But I ’m an 
old tree, and the axe is lying, ground, somewhere, that ’s to 
cut me down before very long. Old folks can’t change their 
waySj and begin new plans and doings. I ’m only thankful 
that the Lord has sent me a thought that lightens all the 
dread I ’ve had for years about leaving the old place ; and 
that I can go, thinking maybe there ’ll be His work doing in 
it as long as it standi” 

“I don’t know,” she resumed, after a pause, “ how your 
father’s affairs are now. The likelihood is, if he has any 
health, that he ’ll go into some kind of a venture again be- 
fore very long. But I shall have a talk with him, and if 
he is n’t satisfied I ’ll alter it so as to do something more 
for you.” 

“ Something more ! ” said Faith. But you have done a 
jgreat deal, as it is ! I did n’t say so, because I was thinking 
so much of the other.” 

“ It won’t make an heiress of you,” said Aunt Faith. 
“ But it ’ll be better than nothing, if other means fall short. 
And I don’t feel, somehow, as if you need be a burden on 
my mind. There ’s a kind of a certainty borne in on me, 
otherwise. I can’t help thinking that what I 've done has 
been a leading. And if it has, it ’s right. - - Low put tnis 
back, and tell Miss Sampson she may brii^ s.j g.^ael.” 


CHAPTEB XXm 


«LORT McWHIRk’s INSriKATIOK. 

** No bird am I to sing in June, 

And dare not ask an equal boon. 

Good nests and berries red are Nature’s 
To give away to better creatures, — 

And* yet my days go on, go on.” 

Mrs. Browning. 

Mr. and Mrs. Gartney arrived on Thursday. 

Two weeks and three days they had been absent ; and in 
that time how the busy sprites of change and circumstance 
had been at work ! As if the scattered straws of events, that, 
stretched out in slender winrows, might have reached across 
a field of years, had- been raked together, and rolled over, 
— crowded close, and heaped, portentous, into these eighteen 
days! 

Letters had told them something; of the burned mill, 
and Eaith’s fearful danger and escape ; of Aunt Hender- 
son’s continued illness, and its present serious aspect ; and 
with this last intelligence, which met them in New York but 
two days since, Mrs. Gartney found her daughter’s agitated 
note of pained avowal, that she “ had come, through all this, 
to know herself better, and to feel sure that this marriage 
ought not to be ; ” that, in short, all was at length over be- 
tween her and Paul Eushleigh. 


] 

FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 301 

It was a meeting full of thouglit, — where miicli waited 
for speech th^t letters could neither have conveyed nor sat- 
isfied, — when Faith and her father and mother exchanged 
the kiss of love and welcome, once more, in the little home 
at Cross Corners. 

It was well that Mis’- Battis had made waffles, and spread 
a tempting summer tea with these and her nice, white bread, 
and fruits and cream ; and wished, with such faint impatience 
as her huge calm was capable of, that “ they would jest set 
right down, while things was good and hot ; ” and that Hen- 
die was full of his wonderful adventures by boat and train, 
and through the wilds ; so that these first hours were gotten 
over, and all a little used to the old feeling of being together 
again, before there was opportunity for touching upon deeper 
subjects. 

It came at length, — the long evening talk, after Hendie 
was in bed, and Mr. Gartney had been over to the old house, 
and seen his aunt, and had come back, to find wife and 
daughter sitting in the dim light beside the open door, drawn 
close in love and confidence, and so glad and thankful to 
have each other back once more ! 

P’irst, — Aunt Faith ; and what was to be done, — what 
might be hoped — what must be feared — for her. Then, 
the terrible story of the fire ; and all about it, that could 
only be got at by the hundred bits of question and answer, 
and the turning over and over, and repetition, whereby we , 
do the best, — the feeble best, — we can, to satisfy greats 
askings and deep sympathies that never can be anyhow 
made palpable in words. 

And, last of all, — just with the good-night kiss, — ^Faith 
and her mother had had it all before, in the first minutes 
they were left alone together, — Mr. Gartney said to hia 
daughter, — 


26 


302 FAITH GARTNFYH GIRLHOOD. 


“ You are quite certain, now, Faith? ” 

“ Quite certain, father; ” Faith answered, low, with down- 
cast eyes, as she stood-hefore him. 

Her father laid his hand upon her head. 

“You are a good girl; and I don’t blame you; yet I 
thought you would have been safe and happy, so.” 

“ I am safe and happy here at home,” said Faith. 

“ Home is in no hurry to spare you, my child.” 

And Faith felt taken back to daughterhood once more. 

Margaret Kushleigh had been to see her, before this.- It 
was a painful visit, with the mingling of old love and new 
restraint ; and the effort, on either side, to show that things, 
except in the one particular, were still unchanged. 

Faith felt how true it was that “ nothing could go back, 
precisely, to what it was before.” 

There was another visit, a day or two after the re-assem- 
bling of the family at Cross Corners. This was to say 
farewell. New plans had been made. It would take some 
time to restore the mills to working order, and Mr. Eush- 
leigh had not quite resolved whether to sell them out as 
they were, or to retain the property. Mrs. Eushleigh 
wished Margaret to join her at Newport, whither the Sara- 
toga party was to go within the coming week. Then there 
was talk of another trip to Europe. Margaret had never 
been abroad. It was very likely they would all go out in 
October. 

% Paul’s name was never mentioned. 

Faith realized,*painfully, how her little hand had been 
upon the motive power of much that was all ended, now. 

Two eminent medical men had been summoned from 
Mishaumok, and had held consultation with Dr. Wasgatt 
upon Miss Henderson’s case. It had been decided to post- 


FAITH GAHTFEY^S GIRLHOOD. 303 


pone the surgical operation for two or three weeks. Mean- 
while, she was simply to be kept comfortable and cheerful, 
strengthened with fresh air, and nourishing food, and some 
slight tonics. 

Faith was at the old house, constantly. Her aunt craved 
her presence, and drew her more and more to herself. The 
strong love, kept down by a stiff, unbending manner, so, for 
years, — resisting almost its own growth, — would no longer 
be denied or concealed. Fai|5' Hartney had nestled herself 
into the very core of this true, upright heart, unpersuadable 
by anything but clear judgment and inflexible conscience. 

“ I had a beautiful dream last night. Miss Faith,” said 
Glory, one morning, when Faith came over and found the 
busv handmaiden with her churn upon the door-stone, 
“aWut Miss Henderson. I thought she was all well, and 
strong, and she -looked so young, and bright, and pleasant ! 
And she told me to make a May-day. And we had it out 
here in the field. And everybody had a crown ; and every- 
body was queen. And the little children danced round the 
old apple-tree, and climbed up, and rode horseback in the 
branches. And Miss Henderson was out there, dressed in 
white, and looking on. It don’t seem so, — just to say it ; 
but I could n’t tell you how beautiful it was ! ” 

“Dreams are strange things,” said Faith, thoughtfully. 
“ It seems as if they were sent to us, sometimes, — as if we 
really had a sort of life in them ” 

“Don’t they?” cried Glory, eagerly. “Why, Miss 
Faith, I ’ve dreamed on, and on, sometimes, a whole story 
out ! And, after all, we ’re asleep almost as much as we ’re 
awake. Why is n’t it just as real ? ” 

“I had a dream that night of the fire. Glory. I never 
shall forget it. I went to sleep there, on the sofa. And it 


804 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


seemed as if I were on the top of a high, steep cliff, with no 
way to get down. And all at once, there was fire behind 
me, — a burning mountain ! And it came nearer, and 
nearer, till it scorched my very feet ; and there was no way 
• down. And then, — it was so strange I — I knew Mr. 
Armstrong was coming. And two hands took me, — just 
as his did, afterward, — and I felt so safe ! And then I 
wok(), and it all happened. When he came, I felt as if I 
had called him.” . 

The dasher of the churn was still, and G-lory stood, 
breathless, in a white excitement, gazing into Faith’s eyes. 

“ And so you did. Miss Faith ! Somehow, — through 
the dream-land, — you certainly did ! ” 

Faith went in to her aunt, and Glory churned and pon- 
dered. 

Were these two to go on, dreaming, and calling to each 
other “ through the dream-land,” and never, in the day- 
light, and their waking hours, speak out ? 

This thought, in vague shape'^ turned itself, restlessly, in 
Glory’s brain. 

Other brains revolved a like thought, also. 

“ Somebody talked about a ‘ripe pear,’ once. I wonder 
if that one is n’t ever going to fall ! ” 

N urse Sampson wondered thus, as she settled Miss Hen- 
derson in her arm-chair before the window, and they saw 
Roger Armstrong and Faith Gartney walk up the field 
together in the sunset light. 

“ I suppose it would n’t take much of a jog to do it. But, 
maybe, it’s as well to leave it to the Lord’s sunshine. He ’ll 
ripen it, if He sees fit.” 

“ It ’s a pretty picture, anyhow. There ’s the new moon 
exactly over their right shoulders, if they ’d only turn their 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 305 


heads to look at it. I don’t think mncli of signs ; but, 
somehow, I always do like to have that one come right ! ” 

“ Well, it ’s there, whether they ’ve found it out, or not,” 
replied Aunt Faith. 

Glory sat on the flat door-stone. She had the invariable 
afternoon knitting- work in her hand ; but hand and work 
had fallen to her lap, and her eyes were away upon the 
glittering, faint crescent of the moon, that pierced the 
golden mist of sunset. Close by, the evening star had filled 
his chalice of silver splendor. 

“ The star and the moon only see each other. I can see 
both. It is better.” 

She had come to the feeling of Eoger Armstrong’s ser- 
mon. To receive consciously, as she had through her 
whole life intuitively and unwittingly, all beauty of all 
being about her into the secret beauty of her own. She 
could be glad with the gladness of the whole world. 

The two came up, and Glory rose, and stood aside. 

“ Ypu have had thoughts, to-night. Glory,” said the min- 
ister. “ Where have they been ? ” 

“ Away, there,” answered Glory, pointing to the western 
sky. 

They turned, and followed her gesture ; and from up 
there, at their right, beyond, came down the traditional 
promise of the beautiful young moon. 

Glory had shown it them. ’ * 

“And I’ve been thinking, besides,” said Glory, “about 
that dream of yours, Miss Faith. I ’ve thought of it all 
day. Please tell it to Mr. Armstrong ? ” 

And Glory disappeared down the long passage to the 
kitchen, and left them standing there, together. She went 
straight to the tin-baker before the fire, and lifted the 
26 * 


306 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


cover, to see if her biscuits were ready for tea. Then she 
seated herself upon a little bench that stood against the 
chimney-side, and leaned her head against the bricks, and 
looked down into the glowing coals. 

“ It was put into my head to do it! ” she said, breath- 
lessly, to herself. “ I hope it was n’t ridiculous 1 ” 

So she sat, and gazed on, into the coals. They were out 
there in the sunset, with the new moon and the bright star 
above them in the saffron depths. 

They stood alone, except for each other, in this still, 
radiant beauty of all things. 

Miss Henderson’s window was around a projection of the 
rambling, irregular structure, which made the angle wherein 
the pleasant old door-stone lay. 

“ May I have your dream, Miss Faith ? ” 

She need not be afraid to tell a simple dream. Any 
more, at this moment, than when she told it to Glory, that 
morning, on that very spot. Why did she feel, that if she 
should speak a syllable of it now, the truth that lay behind 
it would look out, resistless, through its veil? That she 
could not so keep down its spirit-meaning, that it should 
not flash, electric, from her soul to his ? 

“ It was only — that night,” she said, tremulously. “ It 
seemed very strange. Before the fire, I had the dream. It 
was a dream of fire and danger, — danger that I could not 
escape from. And I held out my hands, — and I found you 
there, — and you saved me. Oh, Mr. Armstrong I As you 
did save me, afterward ! ” 

Eoger Armstrong turned, and faced her. His deep, ear- 
nest eyes, lit with a new, strange radiance, smote upon hers, 
and held them spell-bound with their glance. 

“I, too, dreamed that night,” — said he, — “of an un- 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 307 


known peril to you. You beckoned me. I sprang from 
out that dream, and rushed into the night, — until I found 
you ! ” 

Their two souls met, in that brief recital, and knew that 
they had met before. That, through the dream-land, there 
had been that call and answer. 

T'aith neither spoke, nor stirred, nor trembled. This 
supreme moment of her life held her unmoved in its own 
mightiness. 

Boger Armstrong held out both his hands. 

“ Eaith ! In the sight of God, I believe you belong to 
me ! ” 

At that solemn word, of force beyond all claim of a mere 
mortal love. Faith stretched her hands in answer, and laid 
them into his, and bowed her head above them., 

“ In the sight of God, I belong to you ! ” 

So she gave herself. So she was taken. As God’s gift, 
to the heart that had been earthly desolate so long. 

There was no dread, no shrinking, in that moment. A 
perfect love cast out all fear. 

And the new moon and the evening star shone down 
together in an absolute peace. 


CHAPTER SXXm. 


LAST HOURS. 

In this dim world of clouding cares 
We rarely know, till ’wildered eyes 
See white wings lessening up the skies, 

The angels with us unawares. 

• • • • • 

Strange glory streams through life’s wild rents, 

And through the open door of death 
We see the heaven that beckoneth 

To the beloved going hence.” 

Gerald Massey. 

“ Eead me tlie twenty-tliird Psalm,” said Miss Henderson. 

It was the evening before the day fixed upon by her 
physicians for the surgical operation she had decided to 
submit to. 

* Paith was in her place by the bedside, her hand resting 
in that of her aunt. Mr. Armstrong sat near, — • an open 
Bible before him. Miss Sampson had gone down the field 
for a “ snatch of .air.” 

Clear upon the stillness fell the sacred words of cheer. 
There was a strong, sure gladness in the tone that uttered 
them, that told they yere born anew, in the breathing, from 
a heart that had proved the goodness and mercy of the Lord. 

In a solemn gladness, also, two other hearts received 
them, and said, silently. Amen ! 

“Now the fourteo^ith of St. John.” 


• FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD. S09 


“ ‘ In my father’s house are many mansions.’ ‘I will 
dwell in the house of the Lord, forever.’ Yes. It holds us 
all. Under one roof. One family, — whatever happens! 
Now, put away the book, and come here ; you two ! ” 

It was done ; and Eoger Armstrong and Faith Gartney 
stood up, side by side, before her. 

“ I have n’t. said so before, because I would n’t set people 
troubling beforehand. But in my own mind, I ’m pretty 
sure of what ’s coming. And if I had n’t felt so all along, 
I should now. When the Lord gives us our last earthly 
wish, and the kind of peace comes over that seems as if it 
could n’t be disturbed by anything, any more, we may know, 
by the hush of it, that the day is done. I ’m going to bid 
you good-night. Faith, and send you home. Say your 
prayers, and thank God, for yourself and for me. Whatever 
you hear of me, to-morrow, take it for good news ; for it will 
be good. — Koger Armstrong ! Take care of the child ! — 
Child ! love your husband ; and trust in him ; for you may! ” 
Close, close, — bent Faith above her aunt, and gave and 
took that solemn good-night kiss. 

“ ‘ The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of 
God, and the communion of the Holy Ghost, be with us all. 
Amen ! ’ ” 

With the word of benediction, Eoger Armstrong turned 
frem the bedside, and led Faith away. 

And the deeper shadows of night fell, and enfolded the 
Old House, and the hours wore on, and all was still. Stillest, 
calmest of all, in the soul of her wha had dwelt there for 
nearly threescore years and ten, an(^ho knew, none the 
less, that it would be surely home to . her wheresoever her 
place might be given her next, in that wide and beautiful 
“ House of the Lord I ” 


310 FAITH GAFTHFT’S GIRLHOOD. 


It was a strange day that succeeded ; when they sat, 
waiting so, through those morning hours, keeping such Sab- 
bath as heart and life do keep, and- are keeping, somewhere, * 
always, in whatever busy work-day of the world, when great 
issues come to solemnize the time. 

Almost as still at the Old House as at Cross Comers. 
Ho hurry. No bustle. Glory quietly doing her needful du- . 
ties, and obeying all direction of the nurse. Mr. Armstrong 
in his own room, in readiness always, for any act or errand 
that might be required of him. Henderson Gartney alone 
in that ancient parlor at the front. The three physicians, 
and Miss Sampson shut with Aunt Faith into her room. A 
faint, breathless odor of ether creeping everywhere, even out 
into the summer air. 

It was eleven o’clock, when a word was spoken to Eoger' 
Armstrong, and he took his hat and walked across the field. 
Faith, with pale, asking face, met him at t^ip door. 

“ Well, — thus far ; ” was the message ; and a kiss fell 
upon the uplifted forehead, and a look of boundless love and 
sympathy into the fair, anxious eyes. “ All has been done ; 
and she is comfortable. There may still be danger ; but 
the worst is past ” 

Then a brazen veil fell from before the face of day. The 
sunshine looked golden again, and* the song of birds rang 
out, unmuffled. The strange. Sabbath stillness might be 
broken. They could speak common words, once more. 

Faith and her mother sat there, in the hill-side parlor, 
talking thankfully, aM happily, with Eoger Armstrong. So 
a half-hour passed by. Mr. Gartney would come, with 
further tidings, when he had been able to speak with the 
physicians. 

The shadows of shrub and tree crept and shortened to 


FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD. 311 


the lines of noon, and still, no word. They began to 
wonder, why. 

Mr. Armstrong would go back. He might, be wanted, 
somehow. They should hear again, immediately, unless he 
were detained. 

He was not detained. They watched him up the field, 
and into the angle of the door-way. He was hidden there 
a moment, but not more. Then they saw him turn, as one 
lingering and reluctant, and retrace his steps toward them. 

“Faith! Stay here, darling ! Let me meet him first,” 
said Mrs. Gartney. 

Faith shrank back, fearful of she knew not what, into 
the room they had just quitted. 

A sudden, panic dread and terror seized her. She felt 
her hearing sharpened, strained, involuntarily. She should 
catch that first word, however it might be spoken. She 
dared not hear it, yet. Out at the hill- side door, into the 
shade of the deep evergreens, she passed, with a quick im- 
pulse. 

Thither Koger Armstrong followed, presently, and found 
her. With the keen instinct of a loving sympathy, he knew 
she fied from speech. So he put his arm about her, silently, 
tenderly ; and led her on, and up, under the close, cool 
shade, the way their steps had come to know so well. 

“ Take it for good news, darling. For it is good,” he 
said, at last, when he had placed her in the rocky seat, wheio 
she had listened to so many treasured words, — to that old, 
holy confidence, — of his. 

And there he comforted her. 

A sudden sinking, — a prostration beyond what they had 
looked for, had surprised her attendants ; and, almost with 


812 FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


their notice of the change, the last, pale, gray shadow had 
swept up over the calm, patient face, and good Aunt Taith 
had passed away. 

Away, — for a little. Not out of God’s house. Not lost 
out of His household. 

This was her will. 

“ I, Faith Henderson, spinster, in sound mind, and of my own 
^ill, direct these tilings. 

“ That to my dear grandniece,. Faith Henderson Gartney, be 
given from me, as my bequest, that portion of my worldly prop- 
erty now invested in two stores in D Street, in the city of 

MishaumoK. ' That this property and interest be hers, for her own 
use and disposal, with my love. 

“Also, that my plate, and my box of best house linen, which 
stands beside the press in the northwest chamber, be given to 
her. Faith Henderson Gartney ; and that my nephew, Henderson 
Gartney, shall, according to his own pleasure and judgment, ap- 
propriate and dispose of any books, or articles. of old family value 
and interest. But that beds, bedding, and all heavy household 
furniture, with a proper number of chairs and other movables, 
be retained in the house, for its necessary and suitable furnishing. 

“And then, that all this residue of personal effects, and my 
real estate in the Old Homestead at Kinnicutt Cross Corners, and 
my shares in the Kinnicutt Bank, be placed in the hands of my 
nephew, Henderson Gartney, to be held in trust during the natural 
life of my worthy and beloved handmaiden, Gloriana MeWhirk; 
for her to occupy said house, and use said furniture, and the in- 
come of said property, so long as she can find at least four orphan 
children to maintain therewith, and “ make a good time for, every 
day.” 

Provided, that in case the said Gloriana MeWhirk shall marry, 
or shall no longer so employ this property, or in case that she 
shall die, said property is to revert to my above-named grand- 
niece, Faith Henderson Gartney, for her and her heirs, to their 
use and behoof forever. 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


313 


“ And if there be any failure of a legal binding in this paper 
that I write, I charge it upon my nephew, Henderson Gartney, 
on his conscience, as I believe him to be a true rnd honest man, 
to see that these my effects are so disposed of, according to my 
plain will and intention. 

• (Signed) FAITH HENDEESON. 

(Witnessed) 

Eoger Armstrong, 

Hiram WasgatTp 
Luther Goodell.** 


27 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


MRS. PARLEY GIM^^, 

“ The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men 
Gang aft agley.” 

Burns. 

Kinnicbtt had got an enormous deal to talk about. The 
excitement of the great fire, and the curiosity and astonish- 
ment concerning Miss G-artney’s share in the events of that 
memorable night had hardly passed into the quietude of 
things discussed to death and laid away, unwillingly, in 
their graves, when all this that had happened at Cross 
Corners poured itself, in a fiood of wonder, upon the little 
community. 

Not all, quite, at once, however. Eaith’s engagement 
was not, at first, spoken of publicly. There was no need, 
in this moment of their common sorrow, to give their names 
to the little world about them, for such handling a^ it might 
please. Yet the little world found plenty to say, and a 
great many plans to make for them none the less. 

Miss Henderson’s so long, unsuspected, and apparently 
brief illness, her sudden death, and the very singular will 
whose provisions had somehow leaked out, as matters of the 
sort always do, made a stir and ferment in the place, and 
everybody felt bound to arrive at some satisfactory conclu- 
sion which should account for all, and to get a clear idea of 


FAITH GABTHET^S GIBLIIOOH. 315 


wliat everybody immediately concerned would do, or ought, 
in the circumstances, to do next, before they, — the first 
everybodies, could eat and sleep, and go comfortably 
about their own business again, in the ordinary way. 

They should think Mr. Gartney would dispute the will. 
It could n’t be a very hard matter, most likely, to set it 
aside. All that farm, and the Old Homestead, and her 
money in the bank, going to that Glory McWhirk ! Why, 
it was just ridiculous. The old lady must have been losing 
her faculties. One thing was certain, any way. The min- 
ister was out of a boarding-place again. So that question 
came up, in all its intricate bearings, once more. 

This time Mrs. Gimp struck, while, as she thought, the 
iron was hot. 

Mr. Parley Gimp met Mr. Armstrong, one morning, in 
the village street, and waylaid him to s^y that “ his good 
lady thought she could make room for him in their family, if 
it was so that he should be looking out for a place to stay at.” 

Mr. Armstrong thanked him ; but, for the present, he was 
to remain at Cross Corners. 

'‘At the Old House?” 

“No, sir. At Mr. Gartney’s.” 

The iron was cold, after all. 

Mrs. Parley Gimp called, one day, a week or two later, 
when the minister was out. A visit of sympathetic scrutiny. 

“ Yes, it was a great loss, certainly. But then, at her 
age, you know, ma’am ! We paust all expect these things. 
It was awfully sudden, to be sure. Must have been a ter- 
rible shock. Was her mind quite clear at the last ma’am ? ” 

“ Perfectly. Clear, and calm, and happy, through it all.” 

“ That’s very pleasant to think of now, I’ m sure. But 
I hear she ’s made a very extraordinary arrangement about 


316 FAITH GARTNFY'S GIRLHOOD. 


the property. You can’t tell, though, to he sure, about all 
you hear, nowadays.” 

“ No, Mrs. Gimp. That is very true,” said Mrs. Gart- 
ney. 

“ Everybody always expected that it would all come to 
you. At least, to your daughter. She seemed to make so 
much of her.” 

“ My daughter is quite satisfied, and we for her.” 

“ Well, I must say ! — and so, Mr. Armstrong is to board 
here, now ? A little out of the way of most of the parish, 
is n’t it ? I never could see, exactly, what put it into his 
head to come so far. Not but what he makes out to do his 
duty as a pastor, pretty prompt, too. I don’t hear any 
complaints. He ’s rather off and on about settling, though. 
I guess he ’s a man that keeps his intentions pretty close 
to himself, — and all his affairs, for that matter. Of course 
he ’s a perfect right to. But I will say I like to know all 
about folks from the beginning. It aggravates me to have 
to begin in the middle. I tell Serena, it ’s just like reading 
a book when the first volume ’s lost. I don’t suppose I ’m 
much more curious than other people ; but I should like to 
know just how old he is, for one thing ; and who his father 
and mother were ; and where he came from in the first 
place, and what he lives on ; for ’t aint our salary, I know 
that ; he ’s given away more ’n half of it a’ ready, — -right 
here in the village. I ’ve said to my husband, forty times, 
if I ’ve said it once, ‘ I declare, I ’ve a great mind to ask 
him myself, straight out, just to see what he’ll say.’ ” 

“ And why not?” asked a voice, pleasantly, behind her, 

Mr. Armstrong had come in, unheard by the lady in her 
own rush of words, and had approached too near, as this 
suddenly ceased, to be able to escape again unnoticed. 


FAITH GARTNET’S GIRLHOOD.* 317 

Mis^ Battistold Luther Goodell afterward, that she *‘jest 
looked in from the next room, at that, and if ever a woman 
felt cheap, — all over, — and as if she had n’t a right to her 
own toes and fingers, and as if every thread and stitch on 
her turned mean, all at once, — it was Mrs. Gimp, that 
minit ! ” 

“ Has Faith returned? ” Mr. Armstrong asked, of Mrs. 
Gartney, after a little pause in which Mrs. Gimp showed 
no disposition to develop into deed her forty times declared 
‘‘ great mind.” . 

“ I think not. She said she would remain an hour (y two 
with Glory, and help her to arrange those matters she came 
in, this morning, to ask us about.” 

“ I will walk over.” 

And the minister took his hat again, and with a how to 
the two ladies, passed out, and across the lane. 

“ Faith! ” ejaculated the village matron, her courage 
and her mind to meddle returning. “Well, that’s inti- 
mate 1 ” 

It might as well he done now, as at any time. Mr. Arm- 
strong, himself, had heedlessly precipitated the occasion. 
It had only been, among them, a question of how and when. 
There was nothing to conceal. 

“ Yes,” replied Mrs. Gartney, quietly. “ They will ho 
married hy-and-hy.” 

“Did she go out the door, ma’am? Or has she melted 
down into the carpet? ’Cause, I have heerd of people 
sinkin’ right through the floor,” said Mis’ Battis, who “jest 
looked in ” a second time, as the hewildere(? visitor receded. 

The pleasant autumn months, mellowing and brightening 
all things, seemed also to soften and gild their memories 
27 * 


318 'FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


of tlie life that had ended, ripely and beautifully, among 
them. 

Glory, after the first overwhelm of astonishment at what 
had befallen her, — made fully to understand that which 
she had a right, and was in duty bound to do, — entered 
upon the preparations for her work with the same unafiect- 
ed readiness with which she would have lone the bidding 
of her living mistress. It was so evident that her true 
humbleness was untouched by all. “It’s beautiful! ” and 
the. tears and smiles would come together as she said it. 
“ then. Miss Faith — Mr. Armstrong I I never can do 
any of it unless you help me 1 ” 

Faith and Mr. Armstrong did help with heart and hand, 
and every word of counsel that she needed. 

“ I must buy some cotton and calico, and make some 
little clothes and tyers. Hadn’t I better? When they 
come, I ’ll have them to take care of.” 

And with the loving anticipation of a mother, she made 
up, and laid away. Faith helping her in all, her store of 
small apparel for little ones that were to come. 

She had gone down, one day, to Mishaumok, and found 
out Bridget Foye, at the old number in High Street. And 
to her she had entrusted the care of looking up the children,- 
— to be not less than five, and not more than eight or nine 
years of age, — who should be taken to live with her at “ Miss 
Henderson’s home^” and “ have a good time every day.” 

“ I must get them here before Christmas,” said Glory to 
her friends. “We must hang their stockings all up by the 
great kitchen %iimney, and put sugar-plums and picture 
books in 1 ” 

She was going back eagerly into her child-life, — rather 
into the life her childhood wist of, but missed, — and would 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 319 


live it all over, now, with these little ones, taken already, 
before even they were seen or found, out of their stranger- 
hood into her great, kindly heart ! 

A plain, capable, motherly woman had been obtained, by 
Mr. Armstrong’s efforts and inquiry, who would live with 
Glory as companion and assistant. There was the dairy- 
work to be carried on, still. This, and the hay-crops, made 
the principal income of the Old Farm. A few fields were 
rented for cultivation. 

“ Just think,” cried Glory when the future management 
of these matters was talked of, “ what it will be to see the 
little things let out a rolling in the new hay ! ” 

Her thought passed so entirely over herself, as holder and 
arbiter of means, to the^ood, — the daily little j.oy, — that 
was to come, thereby, to others! 

When all was counted and calculated, they told her that 
she might safely venture to receive, in the end, six children. 
But that, for the present, four would perhaps be as many as 
it would be wise for her to undertake. 

“You know best,” she said, “and I shall do whatever 
you say. But I don’t feel afraid, — any more, that is, for 
taking six than four. I shall just do for them all the time, 
whether or no.” 

“ And what, if they are bad and troublesome. Glory? ” 

“Oh, they won’t be,” she replied. “I shall love them 
sol” 


9 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


INDIAN SUMMEK. 


*T is as if tlie benignant Ileaven 
Had a new revelation given, 

And written it out with gems j 
For the golden tops of the elms 
And the burnished bronze of the ash 
And the scarlet lights tha^ash 
From the sumach’s points of flame, 

Like blazonings on a scroll 
Spell forth an illumined Name 
For the reading of the soul I 

It is of no use to dispute about the Indian Summer. I 
never found two people who could agree as to the time when 
it ought to be here, or upon a month and day when it should 
be decidedly too late to look for it. It keeps coming. After 
the Equinoctial, which begins to be talked about with the 
first rains of Septeii^er, and is n’t done with till the Sun 
has measured half-a5ozen degrees of south declination, all 
the pleasant weather is Indian Summer, — away on to Christ- 
mas-tide. Eor my part, I think we get it now and then, 
little by little, as “ the kingdom ” comes. That every soft, 
warm, mellow, hazy, golden day, like each fair, fragrant 
life, is a part aiM outcrop of it ; though weeks of gale and 
frost, or ages of cruel worldliness and miserable sin may lie 
between. 

It was an Indian Summer day, then ; and it was in Oc- 
tober. 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 321 


Faith and Mr. Armstrong walked over the brook, and 
round by Pasture Eocks, to the “ little chapel,” as Faith 
had called it, since the time, last winter, when she and 
Glory had met the minister there, in the still, wonderful, 
pure beauty that enshrined it on that “ diamond morning.” 

The elms that stood then, in their icy bheen, about the 
meadows, like great cataracts of light, were soft with amber 
drapery, now ; translucent in each leaf with the detained 
sunshine of the summer ; and along the borders of the wood- 
walk, scarlet flames of sumach sprang out, vivid, from among 
the lingering green ; and birches trembled with their golden 
plumes ; and bronzed ash boughs, and deep crimsons and 
maroons and chocolate-browns and carbuncle red that crown ^ 
ed the oaks with richer Ihd intenser hues, made up a wealth 
and massiveness of beauty wherein eye and thought revelled 
and were sated. 

Over and about all, the glorious October light, and the 
dreamy warmth that was like a palpable love. 

They stood on the crisp moss carpet of the “ half-way 
rock,” — the altar-crag behind them, with its cherubim that 
waved illumined wings of tenderer radiance now, — and 
gazed over the broad outspread of marvellous color ; and 
thought of the summer that had come and gone since they 
had stood there, last, together, and of the beauty that had 
breathed alike on earth and into life, for them. 

“ Faith, darling ! Tell me your thought,” said Eoger 
Armstrong. 

“ This was my thought,” Faith answered, slowly. “ That 
first sermon you preached to us, — that gave me such a 
hope, then, — that comes up to me ^o, almost as a warn- 
ing, now ! The poor, — that were to have the kingdom ! 
And then, those other words, — ‘how hardly shall they 


822 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD, 


■who have riches enter in I ’ And I am so rich ! It fright- 
ens me.” 

“ Entire happiness does make one tremble. Only, if we 
feel God in it, and stand but the more ready for His work, 
we may be safe.” 

“ His work — yes,” Faith answered. “ But now he only 
gives me rest. It seems as if, somehow, I were not worthy 
of a hard life. As if all things had been made too ea^ for 
me. And I had thotfght, so, of some great and difficult 
thing to do.” 

Then Faith told him of the oracle that, years agi, had 
first wakened her to the thought of what life might be ; of 
the “high and holy work” that she had dreaded of^Mind 
of her struggles to fulfil it, feebly, in the only ways that as 
yet had opened for her. 

“And now — just to receive all, — love, and h^lp, and 
care, — and to rest, and to be so wholly happy ! ” 

“ Believe, darling, that we are led, through all. That . 
the oil of joy is but as an anointing for a nobler work. It 
is only so I dare to think of it We shall have plenty to 
do, Faithie ! And, perhaps, to bear. It will all be set 
before us, in good time.” 

“But nothing can be Mrd to do, any more. That is what 
makes me almost feel unworthy. Look at Nurse Sampson. 
Look at Glory. They have only their work, and the love 
of God to help them in it And I — ! Oh, I am not poor 
any longer. The words don’t seem to be for me.” 

“Let us take them with their double-edge of truth, 
then. Holding ourselves always poor, in sight of the infinite 
spiritual riches of the kingdom. Blessed are the poor, who 
can feel, even in the keenest earthly joy, how there is a 
fulness of life laid up in Him who gives it, of whose depth 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 323 


the best gladness here is but a glimpse and foretaste ! We 
will not be selfishly or unworthily content, God helping us, 
my little one ! ” 

“ It is so hard not to be content ! ” whispered Faith, as the 
strong, manly arm held her, in its shelter, close beside the 
noble, earnest heart. Vi, 

“I think,” said Eoger Armstrong, afterward, as they 
walked down over the fragrant pathway of fallen pine leaves, 

“ that I have never known an instance of one more evidently 
called, commissioned, and prepared for a good work in the ’ 
world, than Glory. Her whole life has been her education 
for it. It is not without a purpose, when a soul like hers is 
left to struggle up through such externals of circumstance. 

We can love and help her in it. Faith ; and do something, 
in our way, for her, as she will do, in hers, for others.” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” assented Faith, impulsively. “ I have wish- 
Jjed ” but there she stopped. 

^ “Am I to hear no more?” asked Mr. Armstrong, pres- 
ently. “ Have I not a right to insist upon the wish? ” 

“I forgot what I was coming to,” said Faith, blushing 
deeply. “ I spoke of it, one day, to mother. And she, said 
it was a thing I couldn’t decide for myself, now. That 
some one else would be concerned, as well as I.” 

“And some one else will be sure to wish as you do. Only 
there may be a wisdom in waiting. Faithie, — I have never 
told you yet, — will you be frightened if I tell you now, — 
that I am not a poor man, as the world counts poverty? 

My friend, of whom you know, in those terrible days of the 
commencing pestilence, having only his daughter and myself 
to care for, made his will ; in provision against whatever 
might befall them there. By that will, — through the fear, 
ful sorrow that made it effective, — I came into possession ;i , 


824 FAITH GARTNET’S GIRLHOOD, 


of a large property. Your little inheritance, Faithie, goes 
into your own little purse for private expenditures or chari- 
ties. But for the present, as it seems to me, Glory has 
ample means for all that it is well for her to undertake. 
By-and-hy, as she gains in years and in experience, you will 
have it in your power to enlarge her field of good. ‘ Miss 
Henderson’s Home ’ may grow into a wider benefit than even 
she, herself, foresaw.” 

Faith was not frightened. These were ncit the riches that 
could make her tremble with a dread lest earth should too 
fully satisfy. This was only a promise of new power to 
work with ; a guaranty that God was not leaving her merely 
to care for and to rest in a good that must needs be all her 
own. 

“We shall find plenty to do, Faithie I ” Mr. Armstrong 
repeated ; and he held her hand in his with a strong pres- 
sure that told how the thought of that work to come, and 
her sweet and entire association in it, leaped along his pulses 
with a living joy. 

Faith caught it ; and all fear was gone. She could not 
shrink from the great blessedness that was laid upon her, 
any more than Nature could refuse to wear her coronation 
robes, that trailed their radiance in this path they trod. 

Life held them in a divine harmony. 

The October sun, that mantled them with warmth and 
glory ; the Indian Summer, that transfigured earth about 
them; all tints, — all redolence, — all broad beatitude of 
globe and sky, — were none too much to breathe out and 
make palpable ih , glad and holy auspice of the hour. 

Mr. Gartney had gradually relinquished his half- formed 
thought of San Francisco. Already the unsettled and threat- 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 325 


eiiing condition of affairs in the country had begun to make 
men feel that the time was not one for new schemes or ad- 
venturous changes. Somehow, the great wheels, mercantile 
and political, had slipped out of their old grooves, and went 
laboring, as it were, roughly and at random, with fierce 
clattering and jolting, quite off the ordinary track ; so that 
none could say whether they should finally regain it, and 
roll smoothly forward, as in the prosperous and peaceful 
days of the past, or should bear suddenly and irretrievably 
down to some horrible, unknown crash and ruin. 

Henderson Gartney, however, was too restless a man to 
wait, with entire passiveness, the possible turn and issue of 
things. 

Quite strong, again, in health, — so great a part of his 
burden and anxiety lifted from him in the marriages, actual 
and prospective, of his two daughters, — and his means 
augmented by the sale of a portion of his western property 
which he had effected during his summer visit thereto, — it 
was little to be looked for that he should consent to vegetate, 
idly and quietly, through a second winter at Cross Corners. 

The first feeling of some men, apparently, when they have 
succeeded in shuffling off a load of difficulty, is a sensation 
of the delightful, ease with which they can immediately 
shoulder another. As when one has just cleared a desk or 
drawer of rubbish, there is such a tempting opportunity 
made for beginning to stow away and accumulate again. 
Well ! the principle is an eternal one. Nature does abhor 
a vacuum. 

The greater portion of the ensuing months, therefore, 
Mr. Gartney spent in New York ; whither his wife and chil- 
dren accompanied him, also, for a stay of a few weeks ; dur- 
ing which. Faith and her mother accomplished the inevita- 
28 


326 FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD, 


ble shopping that a coming wedding necessitates ; and set 
in train of preparation certain matters beyond the range of 
Kinnicutt capacity and resource. 

Mr. Armstrong, too, was -obliged to be absent from his 
parish for a little time. Affairs of his own required some 
personal attention. He chose these weeks while the others, 
also, were away. 

It was decided that the marriage should take place in the 
coming spring ; and that then the house at Cross Corners 
* should’become the home of Mr. Armstrong and Faith ; and 
that Mr. Gartney should remove, permanently, to New 
York, where he had already engaged in some incidental and 
preliminary business transactions. His purpose was to fix 
himself there, as a shipping and commission merchant, con- 
cerning himself, for a large proportion, with California trade. 

The house in Mishaumok had been rented for a term of 
five years. One change prepares the way for another. 
Things never go back precisely to what they were before. 

Mr. Armstrong, after serious thought, had come to this 
■ conclusion of accepting the invitation of the Old Parish at 
Kinnicutt to remain with it as its pastor, because the place 
itself had become endeared to him for its associations ; be- 
cause, also, it was Faith’s home, which she had learned to 
love and cling to ; because she, too, had a work here, in 
assisting Glory to fulfil the terms of her aunt’s bequest ; 
and because, country parish though it was, and a limited 
sphere, as it might seem, for his means and talents, he saw 
the way here, not only to accomplish much direct good in 
the way of his profession, but as well for a wider exercise of 
power through the channel of authorship ; for which a more 
onerous pastoral charge would not have left him the need- 
ful quiet or leisure. 


FAITH gahtnet^s girlhood. 327 


So, with these comings and goings, these happy plans, 
and helpings, and on-lookings, the late autumn weeks merged 
in viiiter, and days slipped almost imperceptibly by, and 
Christmas came. 

Three little orphan girls had been welcomed into “ Miss 
Henderson’s Home.” And only one of them had hair that 
would curl. But Glory gave the other two an extra kiss 
each, every morning. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


CHEISTMAS-TIDE. 

“Througb suffering and through sorrow thou hast past, 
To show us what a woman true may be ; 

They have not taken sympathy from thee, 

Nor made thee any other than thou wast } 


Nor hath thy knowledge of adversity 
Robbed thee of any faith in happiness, 

But rather cleared thine inner eye to see 
How many simple ways there are to bless.” 

Lowell. 

• ^ “ And if any painter drew her. 

He would paint her unaware. 

With a halo round the hair.” 

, Mrs. BRO^VNINa. 

There were dark portents abroad. Rumors, and threats, 
and prognostications of fear and strife teemed in the columns 
of each day’s sheet of news, and pulsed wildly along the 
electric nerves of the land ; and men looked out, as into a 
coming tempest, that blackened all the southerly sky with 
wrath ; and only that the horror was too great to be believed 
in, they could notjiave eaten and drunken, and bought and 
sold, and planted and builded, as they did, after the age-old 
manner of man, in these days before the Hood that vvas to come. 

Civil war, like a vulture of hell, was swooping down from 
the foul fastness of iniquity that had hatched her in its 


FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD, 329 


high places, and that reared itself, audaciously, in the very 
face of Heaven. 

And a voice, as of a mighty angel, sounded “ Wo ! wo! 
wo ! to the inhahiters of earth ! 

And still men hut half heard and comprehended ; and 
still they slept and rose, and wrought on, each in his own 
work, and planned for the morrow, and for the days that 
were to be. 

And in the midst of all, came the blessed Christmas tide. 
Yes ! even into this world that has rolled its seething bur- 
den of sin and pain and shame and conflict along the listen- 
ing depths through waiting cycles of God’s eternity, was 
Christ once born ! 

And little children, of whom is the kingdom, in their 
simple faith and holy unconsciousness, were looking for the 
Christmas good, and wondering only what the coming joy 
should be. 

The shops and streets of Mishaumok were filled with 
busy throngs. People forgot, for a day, the fissure that had 
just opened, away there in the far South-land, and the 
fierce flames that shot up, threatening, from the abyss. 
What mattered the mass meetings, and the shouts,, and the 
guns, along those shores of the Mexican Gulf? To-night 
would be Christmas Eve ; and there were thousands of little 
stockings waiting to be hung by happy firesides, and they 
must all be filled for the morrow. 

So the shops and streets were crowded, and people with 
arms full of holiday parcels jostled each other at every 
corner. It was n’t like the common days, when they passed 
by, self-absorbed, unknowing and unheeding what might be 
each other’s object or errand. There was a common busi- 
ness to be done to-day. Everybody knew what eveiybody 
28 * 


830 FAITH GAFTNEY^S GIRLHOOD, 


else was after ; and the lady whose carriage waited at the 
door, half filled with costly purchases, stood elbow to elbow 
at the gay counter with one whose-face was pale and wearied 
with the many thoughts and steps it cost her to make the 
three dollars in her pocket, which she dared not break till 
she had quite settled what every cent should go for, buy 
something for each one of five. 

As the day wore on, the hurry and the crowd increased. 
G rave, dignified men might now and then be seen with queer 
packages in their arms, held awkwardly ; for the errand-boys 
in the shops were overbusied and uncertain ; and some things 
must be transported with especial care, and nothing, to-night, 
must fail of its destination. Dolls’ arms and legs betrayed 
themselves through their long swathings, and here and there 
the nose or tail of a painted horse had pricked its way out 
of its paper wrapping ; coat pockets hung heavy with sweet 
burdens; the neat, square parcels, fastened with colored 
twine, told of booksellers’ treasures ; all along the shifting 
sea of faces you read one gleam of pleased anticipation; 
coins had melted into smiles ; the soul of Christmas was 
abroad ; the “better to give than to receive” was the key- 
note of the kindly carnival. 

There are odd encounters in this world-tumble that we 
live in. In the early afternoon, at one of the bright show- 
cases, filled within and heaped without with toys, two women 
met, — as strangers are always meeting, with involuntary 
touch and glance, — borne together in a crowd, — atoms 
impinging for an instant, never to approach again, perhaps, 
in all the coming combinations of time. 

These two women, though, had met before. 

One, sharp, eager, — with a stylish-shabby air of dress 
about her, and the look of pretence that shopmen know, as 


FAITH GARTNEY'S GIRLHOOD, 331 


she handled and asked prices, where she had no actual 
thought of buying, — holding by the hand a child of six, 
who dragged and teased, and got an occasional word that 
crushed him into momentary silence, but who, tired with 
the sights and the Christmas shopping, had nothing for it 
but to begin to drag. and tease again ; another, with bright, 
happy, earnest eyes and flushing cheeks, and hair rolled 
back in a golden wealth beneath her plain straw bonnet ; 
bonnet, and dress, and all, of simple black ; these two came 
face to face. / 

The shabby woman with the sharp look recognized noth- 
ing. Glory McWhirk knew Mrs. Grabbling, and the child 
of six that had been the Grabbling baby. 

All at once, she had him in her arms ; and as if not a 
moment had gone by since she held him so in the little, 
dark, upper entry in Budd Street, where he had toddled 
to her in his night-gown, for her grieved farewell, was 
hugging and kissing him, with the old, forgetting and 
forgiving love. 

Mrs. Grabbling looked on in petrifled amaze. Glory had 
transferred a fragrant white paper parcel from her pocket to 
the child’s hands, and had thrust upon that a gay tin horse 
from the counter, before it occurred to her that the mother 
might, possibly, neither remember nor approve. 

“ I beg your pardon, ma’am, for the liberty; and it’s very 
likely you don’t know me. I ’m Glory McWhirk, that used 
to live with you, and mind the baby.” 

And then she seized once mo'te the big boy in whom the 
baby of olden time was merged, and well-nigh lost, and who 
had already plunged his fingers into the candies, and was 
satisfying himself as to the perfect propriety of all that had 
occurred, by the sure recognition of peppermint-stick. — • 


332 FAITH GARTNETH GIRLHOOD. 


and had the hugs and kisses all over again, ■without ever 
waiting for a word of license. 

Mrs. Gruhhling was not in the least offended. There was 
an air of high respectability in the public avowal of this 
very nice-looking young woman that she had once “ lived 
with her and tended baby.” Also, in the fervor of attach- 
ment that evinced itself in these embraces. It spoke well, 
surely, for the employer. There are those who can take a 
credit to themselves, even from their failure to thwart and 
spoil a nobleness that has overlived their meanness. As 
they might, in their Pharisaism, from the very sunlight of 
God, whose spontaneous outflow no evil of man can quench 
or turn aside. The earth rolls on, and is not yet consumed. 
The blue sky is set safely above its smirch. No track of its 
sin lies foul across the firmament. Therefore, impotent 
sinners, rejoice in the day-shine, and think well of your- 
selves that heaven still smiles ! 

“I’m sure I ’m glad to see you, Gloiy,” said Mrs. Grub- 
bling, patronizingly ; ‘ ‘ and I hope you ’ve been doing well 
since you went a’way from me.” As if she had been doing 
so especially well before, that there might easily be a doubt 
as to whether going farther had not been faring worse. I 
have no question that Mrs. Grabbling really fancied, at the 
moment, that the foundation of all the simple content and 
quiet prosperity that evidenced themselves at present in the 
person of her former handmaid, had been laid in Budd Street 

“And where are you living now?” proceeded she, as 
Glory resigned the boy to^is mint-stick, and was saying 
good-bye. 

“ Out in Kinnicutt, ma’am; at Miss Henderson’s; where 
I have been ever since,” 

She never thought of triumphing. She never dreamed 


FAITH GARTHET’S GIRLHOOD. 333 


■ of what it would he to electrify her former mistress Tith the 
• aunouncement that she whom she had since served had died, 
and left her, Glory McWhirk, the life-use of more than half 
her estate. That she dwelt now, as proprietress, where she 
had been a servant. Her humbleness and her faithfulness 
were so entire that she never thought of herself as occupying, 
in the eyes of others, such position. She was Miss Hender- 
son’s handmaiden, still ; doing her behest, simply, as if she 
had but left her there in keeping, while she went a journey. 

So she bade good-bye, and courtesied to Mrs. Grabbling, 
and gathered up her little parcels, and went out. Tortu- 
nately. Mrs. Grabbling was half-stunned, as it was. It is 
impossible to tell what might have resulted, had she then 
and there been made cognizant of more. Not to tlie shorn 
lamb, alone, always, are sharp winds beneficently tempered. 
There is a mercy, also, to the miserable wolf. 

Glory had one trouble, to-day, that hindered her pure, 
free and utter enjoyment of what she had to do. 

All day she had seen, here and there along the street, 
little forlorn and ragged ones, straying about aimlessly, as 
if by any chance, a scrap of Christmas cheer might even fall 
to them, if only they kept out in the midst of it. There 
was a distant wonder in their faces, as they met the buyers 
among the shops, and glanced at the fair, fresh burden? 
they carried ; and around the confectioners’ windows they 
would cluster, sometimes, two or three together, and looh; 
as if one sense could take in what was denied so to another. 
She knew so well what the feeling of it was ! To see the 
good times going on, and not be in ’em ! She longed so to 
gather them all to herself, and take them home, and make a 
Christmas for them ! 

She could only drop the pennies that came to her in 


334 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


change loose into her pocket, and give them, one by one, 
along the wayside. And she more than once oJffered a bright 
quarter, (it was in the days when quarters yet were, reader !) 
when she might have counted out the sum in lesser bits, 
that so the pocket should be kept supplied the longer. 

Down by the Eailway Station, the streets were dim, 

and dirty, and cheerless. Inside, the passengers gathered 
about the stove, where the red coals gleamed cheerful in the 
already gathering dusk of the winter afternoon. A New 
York train was going out; and all sorts of people, — from 
the well-to-do, portly gentleman of business, with his ^ good 
coat buttoned comfortably to his chin, his tickets bought, 
his wallet lined with bank-notes for his journey, and secretly 
stowed beyond the reach (if there be such a thing) of pick- 
pockets, and the Mishaumok Journal, Evening Edition, damp 
from the press, unfolded in his fingers, to the care-for-naught, 
dare-devil little news-boy who 4iad sold it to him, and who 
now saunters oflr, varying his monotonous cry with — 

“ Jour-nal, gentlemen ! Eve-nin’ ’dition ! Georgy out I ” 
(“ What ’s that ? ” exclaims an inconsiderate.) 

“ Georgy out ! (Little brother o’ mine. Seen him any- 
where?) Eve-nin’ ’dition! Jour-nal, gentlemen !” and the 
shivering little candy-girl, threading her way with a silent 
imploringness among the throng, — were bustling up and 
down, in waiting-rooms, and on the platforms, till one 
would think, assuredly, that the centre pf all the world’s 
activity, at this moment, lay here ; and that everybody not 
going in this particular express train to New York, must be 
utterly devoid of any aim or object in life, whatever. 

So we do, always, carry our centre about with us. A 
little while ago all the world was buying dolls and tin 


FAITH GARTNEY^S GIRLHOOD. 335 


horses. Horizons shift and ring themselves about us, and 
we, ourselves, stand always in the middle. 

By-and-by, however, the last call was heard. 

“ Passengers for New York ! Train ready ! All aboard ! 

And with the ringing of the bell, and the mighty gasping . 
of the impatient engine, and a scuffle and scurry of a minute, 
in which carpet-bags and babies were gathered up and 
shouldered indiscriminately, the rooms and the platforms 
w'ere suddenly cleared of all but a few stragglers, and hall 
a dozen women with Christmas bundles, who sat waiting 
for trains to way stations. 

Two little pinched faces, purple with the bitter cold, 
looked in at the door. 

“ It’s good and warm in there. Less’ go ! ” 

And the older drew the younger into the room, toward 
the glowing stove. 

They looked as if they had been wandering about in the 
dreary streets till the chill had touched their very bones. 
The larger of the two, a boy, — torn hopelessly as to his 
trowsers, dilapidated to the last degree as to his fragment 
of a hat, — knees and elbows making their way out into 
the world with the faintest shadow of opposition, — had, 
perhaps from this, a certain look of pushing knowingness 
that set itself, by the obscure and inevitable law of compen- 
sation, over against the gigantic antagonism of things he 
found himself born into ; and you knew, as you looked at 
him, that he would, somehow, sooner or later, make his 
small dint against the great dead wall of society that loomed 
itself in his way ; whether society or he should get the worst 
of it, might happen as it would. 

The younger was a little girl. A flower ^rown down iu 
the dirt. A jewel encrusted with mean earth. Little feet 


336 FAITH GARTNFT^S GIRLHOOD. 


in enormous coarse shoes, cracked and trodden down ; bare 
arms trying to hide themselves under a bit of old woolen 
shawl ; hair tangled beneath a squalid hood ; out amidst all, 
a face of beauty that peeped, like an unconscious draft of 
God’s own signing, upon humanity. Was there none to 
acknowledge it ? 

An official came through the waiting-room. 

The boy showed a slink in his eyes, like one used to 
shoving and rebuff, and to getting off, round corners. The 
girl stood, innocent and unheeding. 

“ There ! out with you ! No vagrums here ! ” 

Of course, they could n’t have all Queer Street in their 
waiting-rooms, these railway people ; and the man’s words 
were rougher than his voice. But these were two children, 
who wanted cherishing ! 

The slink in the boy’s eye worked down, and became a 
sneak and a shuffle, toward the door. The girl was follow- 
ing. 

“ Stop ! ” called a woman’s voice, sharp and authoritative. 

Don’t you stir a single step either of you, till you get warm I 
If there isn’t any other way to fix it. I’ll buy you both a 
ticket somewhere and then you’ll be passengers.” 

It was a tall, thin, hoopless woman, with a carpet-bag, a 
plaid shawl, and an umbrella ; and a bonnet that, since other 
bonnets had begun to poke, looked like a chaise top flat- 
tened back at the first spring. In a word, Mehitable 
Sampson. 

Something twitched at the corners of the man’s mouth as 
he glanced round at this sudden and singular champion. 
Something may have twitched under his comfortable waist- 
coat, also. At any rate, he passed on ; and the children, — 
the brief battledore over in which they had been the shuttle- 


FAITH GARTNEr\S GIRLHOOD. 337 


cocks, — crept back, compliant with tbe second order, much 
amazed, toward tbe stove. 

Miss Sampson be^an to interrogate. 

“ Why don’t you take your little sister home? ” 

“ This one ain’t my sister.” Children always set people 
right before they answer queries. 

“Well, — whoever she is, then. Why don’t you both 
go home ? ” 

“ Cause its cold there, too. And we was sent to find 
sticks.” 

“ If she isn’t your sister, who does she belong to? ” 

“ She don’t belong to nobody. She lived upstairs, and 
her mother died, and she came down to us. But she’s goin’ 
to be took away. Mother’s got five of us, now. She’s 
goin’ to the poor-house. She ’s a regular little brick, 
though ; aint yer, Jo ? ” 

The pretty, childish lips that had begun to grow red and 
life-like again, parted, and showed little rows of milk-teeth, 
like white shells. The blue eyes and the baby smile went 
up, confidingly, to the young ragamuffin’s face. There had 
been kindness here. The boy had taken to Jo, it seemed; 
and was benevolently evincing it, in the best way he could, 
by teaching her goodnatured slang. 

“ Yes ; I’m a little brick,” she lisped. 

Miss Sampson’s keen eyes went from jone to the other, 
resting last and long on Jo. 

“I shouldn’t wonder,” she said, deliberately, “ if you 
was Number Four ! ” 

“ Whereabouts do- you live ? ” suddenly, to the boy. 

“Three doors round the corner. ’Taint number four, 
though. It’s ninety-three. ” 

“ What’s your name ? ” 

29 


338 FAITH GABTNJEY’S GIRLHOOD, 


“ Tim Eaffertj.” 

Tim Eafferty I Did anybody ever trust you with a 
carpet-bag ? ” 

“ I ’ve carried ’em up. But then they mostly goes along, 
and looks sharp.” 

“ Well, now I’m going to leave you here, with this one. 
If anybody speaks to you, say you was left in charge. 
Den’t stir till I come back. And — look here ! if you sec a 
young woman come in, with bright, wavy hair, and a black 
gown and bonnet, and if she comes and speaks to you, as 
most likely she will, tell her I said I shouldn’t wonder if 
this was Number Four ! ” 

And Nurse Sampson went out into the street. 

When she came back, the children sat there, still; and 
Glory McWhirk was with them. 

“ I don’t know as I’d any business to meddle ; and I 
have n’t made any promises ; but I ’ve found out that you 
can do as you choose about it, and welcome. And I could n’t 
help thinking you might like to have this one for Number 
Four.” 

Glory had already nestled the poor, tattered child close 
to her, and given her a cake to eat from the refreshment 
counter. 

Tim Eafferty delivered up the carpet-bag, in proud in- 
tegrity. To be sure, there were half a dozen people in the 
room who had witnessed its intrustment to his hands ; but 
I think he would have waited there, all the same, had the 
coast been clear. 

Miss Sampson gave him ten cents, and recounted to Glory 
what she had learned at number ninety-three. 

“ She’s a strange child, left on their hands ; and they ’re 
as poor as death. They were going to give her in charge 


FAITH GARTNET'3 GIRLHOOD. . 339 

to the authorities. The woman said she could n’t feed her 
another day. That’s about the whole of it. If Tim don’t 
bring her back, they’ll know where she is, and be thankful.” 

“ Do you want to go home with me, and hang up your 
stocking, and have a Christmas ? ” 

“ My golly ! ” ejaculated Tim, staring. 

The little one smiled shyly, and was mute. She didn’t 
know what Christmas was. She had been cold, and now 
she was warm, and her mouth and hands were fi.lled with 
sweet cake. And there were pleasant words in her ears. 
That was all she knew. As much as we shall comprehend'^ 
at first, perhaps, when the angels take us up out of the 
earth-cold, and give us the first morsel of heavenly good to 
stay our cravings. 

This was how it ended. Tim had a paper bag of apples 
and cakes, with some sugar pigs and pussy-cats put in at 
the top, and a pair of warm stockings out of Glory’s bag, to 
carry home, for himself ; and he was to say that the lady 
who came to see his mother had taken Jo away into the 
country. To Miss Henderson’s, at Kinnicutt. Glory wrote 
these names upon a paper. Tim was to be a good boy, and 
some day they would come and see him again. 

Then Nurse Sampson’s plaid shawl was wrapped about 
little Jo, and pinned close over her rags to keep out the 
cold of Christmas Eve ; and the bell rang presently ; and 
she was taken out into the bright, warm car, and tucked up 
in a corner, where she slept all the hour that they were 
steaming over the road. 

And so these three went out to Kinnicutt to keep Christ- 
mas at the Old House. 

So Glory carried home the Christ-gift that had 
to her. 


come 


340 FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 


Tim went back, alone, to number ninetj-tbree. He bad 
bis bag of good things, and bis warm stockings, and bis 
wonderful story to tell. And there was more supper and 
breakfast for five than there would have been for six. 
Nevertheless, somehow, be missed the “ little brick.” 

Out at Cross Corners, Miss Henderson’s Home was all 
aglow. The long kitchen, which, by the outgrowth of the 
house for generations, had come to be a central room, was 
flooded with the clear blaze of a great pine knot, that 
crackled in the chimney ; and open doors showed neat ad- 
joining rooms, in and out which the gleams and shadows 
played, making a suggestive pantomime of hide and seek. 
It was a grand old place for Christmas games 1 And three 
little bright-faced girls sat round the knee of a tidy, cheery 
old woman, who told them, in a quaint Irish brogue, the 
story of the “ little rid bin,” that was caught by the fox, 
and got away, again, safe, to her own little house in the 
woods, where she “lived happy iver afther, an’ got a fine 
little brood of chickens to live wid her ; an’ pit ’-em all 
intill warrum stockings and shoes, an’ round-o caliker 
gowns.” 

And they carped at no discrepancies or improbabilities ; 
but seized all eagerly, and fused it in their quick imagina- 
tions to one beautiful meaning ; which, whether it were of 
chicken-comfort, overbrooded with warm love, or of a clothed, 
contented childhood, in safe shelter, mattered not a bit. 

Into this warm, blithe scene came Grlory, just as the fable 
was ended for the fourth time, bringing the last little chick, 
flushed and rosy from a bath ; born into beauty, like Venus 
from the sea; her fair hair, combed and glossy, hanging 
about her neck in curls ; and wrapped, not in a “ round-o- 
caliker,” but in a scarlet flannel night-gown, comfortable 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. 341 


and gay. Then they had howls of bread and milk, and 
gingerbread, and ate their suppers by the fire. And then 
Glory told them 'the old story of Santa Claus ; and how, if 
they hung their stockings by the chimney, there was no 
knowing what they might n’t find in them to-morrow. 

“ Only,” she said,. “ whatever it is, and whoever He sends 
it by, it all comes from the good Lord, first of all.” 

And then, the two white beds in the two bed-rooms close 
by held four little happy bodies, whose souls were given 
into God’s keeping till his Christmas dawn should come, in 
the old, holy rhyme, said after Glory. 

By-and-by, Faith and Mr. Armstrong and Miss Sampson 
came over from the Corner House, with parcels from Kriss 
Kringle. 

And now there was a gladsome time for all ; but chiefly, 
for Glory. 

What unpacking and refolding in separate papers ! Every 
sugar pig, and dog, and pussy-cat must be in a distinct 
wrapping, that so. the children might be a long time finding 
out all that Santa Claus had brought them. What stuffing, 
and tying, and pinning, inside, and outside, and over the 
little red woolen legs that hung, expectant, above the big, 
open chimney ! How Glory laughed, and sorted, and tied, 
and made errands for string and pins, and seieed the oppor- 
tunity for brushing away great tears of love, and joy, and 
thankfulness, that would keep coming into her eyes ! And 
then, when all was done, and she and Faith came back from 
a little flitting into the bed-rooms, and a hovering look over 
the wee, peaceful, sleeping faces there, and they all stood, 
for a minute, surveying the goodly fullness of small delights 
stored up and waiting for the morrow, — how she turned 
suddenly, and stretched her hands out toward the kind 


342 FAITH GARTNFT^S GIRLHOOD. 


friends who had helped and sympathized in all, and said, 
with a quick overflow of feeling, that could find only the 
old words wherein to utter herself, — ^ 

“ Such a time as this ! Such a beautiful time ! And to 
think that I should be in it ! ” 

Miss Henderson’s will was fulfilled. 

A happy, young life had gathered again abcoit the ancient 
hearthstone that had seen two hundred years of human 
change. 

The. Old House, wherefrom the last of a long line had 
passed on into the Everlasting Mansions, had become God’s 
heritage. 

Nurse Sampson spent her Christmas with the Gartneys. 

They must have her again, they told her, at parting, for 
the wedding ; which would be in May. ^ 

“ I may be a thousand miles oflp, by that time. But I 
shall think of you, all the same, wherever I am. My work 
is coming. I feel it. There ’s a smell of blood and death 
in the air r and all the strong hearts and hands T1 be wanted. 
You ’ll see it.” 

And with that, she was gone. 


CHAP PER XXXVII. 


THE WEDDING JOURNEY. 

“ The tree 

Sucks kindlier nurture from a soil enriched 
By its own fallen leaves j and man is made, 

In heart and spirit, from deciduous hopes 
And things that seem to perish.” 

** A stream always among woods or in the sunshine is pleasant to all and 
happy in itself. Another, forced through rocks, and choked with sand, 
under ground, cold, dark, comes up able to heal the world.” 

From “ Seed Grain.” 


“ Shall we plan a wedding journey, Faith ? ” 

It was one evening in April that Mr. Armstrong said 
this. The day for the marriage had been fixed for the first 
week in May. 

Faith had something of the bird-nature about her. Al- 
ways, at this .moment of the year, a restlessness, akin to 
vthat which prompts the flitting of winged things that track 
the sunshine and the creeping greenness that goes up the 
latitudes, had used to seize her, inwardly. Something that 
came with the swelling of tender buds, and the springing 
of bright blades, and the first music born from winter silence, 
had prompted her with the whisper, — “ Abroad ! abroad ! 
Out into the beautiful earth ! ” 

It had been one of her unsatisfied longings. She had 


344 FAITH GARTNET'S GIRLHOOD, 

'thought, what a joy it would he if she could have said, 
frankly, “Father, mother! let us have a pleasant journey 
in the lovely weather I 

And now, that one stood at her side, who would have 
taken her in his tender guardianship whithersoever she 
might choose, — now that there was no need for hesitancy 
in her wish, — this child, who- had never been beyond the 
Hudson, who had thought longingly of Catskill, and Trenton, 
and Niagara, and had seen them only in her dreams, — felt, 
inexplicably, a contrary impulse, that said within her, “Not 
yet ! ” Somehow, she did not care, at this great and beau- 
tiful hour of her life, to wander away into strange places. 
Its holy happiness belonged to home. 

“Not now. Unless you wish it. Not on purpose. Take 
me with you, sometime, when, perhaps, you would have 
gone alone. Let it happen’* 

“We will just begin our quiet life, then, darling, shall 
we ? The life that is to be our real blessedness, and that 
has no need to give itself a holiday, as yet. And let the 
work-days and the holidays be portioned as God pleases?” 

“It will be better, — happier,” Faith answered, timidly. 
“ Besides, with all this fearful tramping to war through the 
whole land, how can one feel like pleasure-journeying ? And 

then ” there was another little reason that peeped out 

last, — “they would have been so sure to make a fuss about 
us in New York! ” 

The adjuncts of life had been much to her in those rest- 
less days when a dark doubt lay over its deep reality. She 
had found a passing cheer and relief in them, then. Now, 
she was so sure, so quietly content ! It was a joy too sacred 
to be intermeddled with. 


FAITH GARTNET^S GIRLHOOD. ,345 


So a family group, only, gathered in the hill-side parlor, 
on the fair May morning wherein good, venerable Mr. Hol- 
land said the words that made Taith Gartney and Eoger 
Armstrong one. 

It was all still, and bright, and simple. Glory, standing 
modestly by the door, said within herself, “ it was like a 
little piece of heaven.” 

And afterward, — not the bride and groom, — but father, 
mother, and little brother, said good-bye, and went away 
upon their journey, and left them there. In the quaint, 
pleasant home, that was theirs now, under the budding 
elms, with the smile of the May promise pouring in. 

And Glory made a May-day at the Old House, by-and-by. 
And the little children climbed in the apple-branches, and 
perched there, singing, like the birds. 

And was there not a white-robed presence with them, 
somehow, watching all ? 

Nearly three months had gone. The hay was down. The 
distillation of sweet clover was in all the air. The little 
ones at the Old House were out, in the lengthening shadows 
of the July afternoon, rolling and revelling in the perfumed, 
elastic heaps. 

Faith Armstrong stood with Glory, in the porch-angle, 
looking on. 

Calnj and beautiful. Only the joy of birds and children 
making sound and stir across the summer stillness. 

Away over the broad face of the earth, out from such 
peace as this, might there, if one could look, — unroll some 
vision of horrible contrast ? Were blood, and wrath, and 
groans, and thunderous roar of guns down there under that 
far, fair horizon, stooping in golden beauty to the cool, green 
hills? 


346 FAITH GAETNFT^S GIRLHOOD, 


Faith walked down the field-path, presently, to meet her 
husband, coming up. He held in his hand an open paper, 
that he had brought, just now, from the village. 

There was news. 

Kout, horror, confusion, death, dismay. 

The field of Manassas had been fought. The Union 
armies were falling back, in disorder, upon Washington. 

Breathlessly, with pale faces, and with hands that grasped 
each other in a deep excitement that could not come to 
speech, they read those columns, together. 

Down there, on those Virginian plains, was this. 

And they were here, in quiet safety, among the clover 
blooms, and the new-cut hay. Elsewhere, men were mown. 

“ Eoger ! ” said Faith, when, by-and-by, they had grown 
calmer over the fearful tidings, and had had Bible words 
of peace and cheer for the fevered and bloody rumors of 
men, — “ might n’t we take our wedding journey, now ? ” 

All the bright, early summer, in those first, months of 
their life together, they had been finding work to do. Work 
they had hardly dreamed of when Faith had feared she 
might be left to a mere, unworthy, selfish rest and happi- 
ness. 

The old New England spirit had roused itself, mightily, 
in the little country town.. People had forgotten their own 
needs, and the provision they were wont to make, at this 
time, each household for itself. Money and mateiial, and 
quick, willing hands were found, and a good work went on ; 
and kindling zeal, and noble sympathies, and hearty prayers 
wove themselves in, with toil of thread and needle, to homely 
fabrics, and embalmed, with every finger-touch, all whereon 
they labored. 

They had remembered the old struggle wherein their 


FAITH GARTNEl^S GIRLHOOD. S47 

country had been born. They were glad and proud to hear 
their burden in this grander one wherein she was to be born 
anew, to higher life. 

Eoger Armstrong and his wife had been the spring and 
soul and centre of all. 

And now, Faith said, — “Eoger I may n’t we take our 
wedding journey ? ” 

Not for a bridal holiday, — not for gay change and pleas- 
ure, — but for a holy purpose, went they out from home. 

Down among the wounded, and war-smitten. Bearing 
comfort of gifts, and helpful words, and prayers. Doing 
whatsoever they found to do, now ; seeking and learning 
what they might best do, hereafter. Truly, God left them 
not without a work. A noble ministry lay ready for them, 
at this very threshold of their wedded life. 

In the hospital at Georgetown, they found Nurse Samp- 
son. 

“I told you so,” she said. “I knew it was coming. 
And the first gun brought me down here to be ready. I ’ve 
been out to Western Virginia ; and I came back here when 
we got the news of this. I shall follow round, wherever 
the clouds roil.” 

In Washington, still another meeting awaited them. 

Paul Eushleigh, in a Captain’s uniform, came, one day, 
to the table of their hotel. 

The first gun had brought him, also, where he could be 
ready. He had sailed for home, with his father, upon the 
reception, abroad, of the tidings of the fall of Sumter. 

“ Your country will want you, now, my son,” had been 
the words of the brave and loyal gentleman. And, like 
another Abraham, he had set his face toward the mount 
of sacrifice. 


848 FAITH GARTNEYJS GIRLJIOOD, 


There was a new light in the young man’s eye. A soul 
awakened there. A purpose, better than any plan or hope 
of a mere happy living in the earth. 

He met his old friends frankly, generously ; and, seem- 
ingly, without a pang. They were all one now, in the sub- 
lime labor that, in their several spheres, lay out before 
them. 

“ You were right. Faith,” he said, as he stood with them, 
and spoke briefly of the past, before they parted. “ I shall 
be more of a man, than if I ’d had my first wish. This war 
is going to make a nation of men. I ’m free, now, to give 
my heart and hand to my country, as long as she needs me. 
And by-and-by, perhaps, if I live, some woman may love 
me with the sort of love you have for your husband. I feel 
now, how surely I should have come to be dissatisfied with 
less. God bless you both ! ” 

‘‘ God bless you, Paul I ” 


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